STUDIES     FOR    STORIES, 


BY    THE    SAME    AUTHOR. 

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ROBERTS    BROTHERS,   Fiablisliers, 
BOSTON. 


STUDIES   FOR  STORIES, 


JEAN    INGELOW. 


BOSTON: 
ROBERTS    BROTHERS 

1865. 


author's   edition, 
Third  Thousand. 


University  Press: 

Welch,    Bigelow,    and   Company, 

Cambridge. 


GIFT 


■    CONTENTS. 

♦ 

Pack 

The  Cumberers 7 

My  Great-Aunt's  Picture       .....  77 

Dr.  Deane's  Governess 119 

The  Stolen  Treasure 201 

Emily's  Ambition 309 


482 


THE     CUMBERERS. 


CHAPTER    I. 

THE    MISSES    PERKINS. 

SOME  years  ago,  while  staying  at  the  seaside,  my 
parents  renewed  their  acquaintance  with  some  ladies, 
whom  we  will  call  the  Misses  Perkins.  They  were  the 
daughters  of  a  clergyman  deceased,  and  had.  a  slender 
competence,  on  which  they  not  only  kept  up  a  creditable 
appearance,  but  were  charitable  and  useful. 

It  happened  that,  shortly  before  returning  home,  my 
parents  remarked,  in  presence  of  these  ladies,  that  they 
had  intended  to  leave  me  behind  for  a  time,  because  my 
health  was  delicate,  but  that  some  change  of  plan  pre- 
vented the  family  with  whom  I  was  to  have  been  domes- 
ticated from  receiving  me.  ^ 

Hereupon  significant  looks  passed  between  the  sisters, 
and  the  next  day  a  note  arrived,  which  set  forth,  that  though 
the  Misses  Perkins  were  not  in  the  habit  of  receiving  board- 
ers, —  far  from  it,  —  yet  on  this  occasion  they  should  be 
happy  to  step  out  of  their  usual  path,  and  accommodate  the 
daughter  of  their  old  friend. 

Accordingly,  I  was  sent  to  their  house,  and  the  ladies  — 
that  is,  some  of  them  —  took  care  that  I  should  derive  all 
the  benefit  that  care  and  kindness  could  secure  to  me. 

The  Misses  Perkins  covenanted  to  provide  me  with  sea 
air,  and,  besides  that,  they  provided  me  with  many  specu- 


10  Studies  for  Stories. 

lations  on  human  life  ;  on  the  Providence  which  throws 
certain  characters  together  ;  the  changes  they  are  intended 
to  work  on  one  another  ;  the  place  each  is  fitted  to  fill  in 
this  world  ;  the  reason  why  some  are  privileged  to  be  al- 
most always  helpers,  while  others  are  suffiered  to  be  uni- 
formly hinderers  ;  and  the  cause  why  some,  as  it  seems, 
are  compelled  to  exert  themselves  so  much,  while  others, 
it  is  evident,  are  determined  to  do  so  little. 

But  did  the  Misses  Perkins  intend  to  teach  me  all  this  ? 
Certainly  not ;  they  were  by  no  means  metaphysical  in 
their  turn  of  mind  and  conversation.  They  were  not  given 
to  abstract  speculation.  They  never  talked  of  the  object 
of  life,  or  of  their  missions.  They  had  agreed  that  I 
should  have  sea  air,  and  I  had  it. 

And  now  I  will  just  describe  to  you  the  Misses  Perkins, 
their  characters  and  occupations ;  and  you  shall  see 
whether  it  was  not  natural  that  I  should  have  cogitated  on 
them  a  little. 

The  three  elder  were  the  daughters  of  a  first  marriage, 
and  appeared  to  be  from  forty  to  forty-five  years  of  age  ; 
the  two  younger  were  the  children  of  a  second  marriage  : 
the  elder  was  twenty-five,  and  the  younger  twenty-three 
years  of  age. 

Miss  Perkins  was  a  tall,  bony  woman,  very  plain,  but 
with  a  pleasant  cheerfulness  and  activity  about  her.  She 
kept  the  house ;  and  half  its  comfort,  and  nearly  all  its 
superfluities,  certainly  arose  from  this  circumstance.  As- 
suredly she  was  not  intellectual,  but  her  love  of  order, 
economy,  and  regularity  made  her  a  very  useful  person. 
And  I  saw  that  if  she  were  to  die,  her  sisters,  independ- 
ently of  their  affection  for  her,  would  miss  her  sorely  from 
their  household. 

She  was  somewhat  garrulous,  and  fond  of  describing 
her  day's  occupations  to  me. 

"  You  see,  my  dear,"  she  would  begin,  "  I  always  go  out 


The  Cumberers.  1 1 

directly  after  breakfast,  because  I  cannot  order  dinner  till  I 
have  been  to  the  fishnionger's  and  the  butcher's.  Things 
vary  very  much  in  price,  and  it  behooves  me  to  buy  what  is 
both  good  and  cheap.  It  would  never  do  to  send  Mary, 
who  is  no  judge,  and  just  say,  '  Buy  soles,'  or  '  Buy  whit- 
ing ' ;  because  just  that  day  those  particular  fish  might  be 
both  stale  and  dear,  while  cod  was  plentiful.  No ;  I  just 
look  about  for  myself;  and  if  all  is  dear,  why,  I  take  none, 
but  go  off  to  the  butcher,  and  get  a  larger  joint  of  meat, 
and  perhaps  make  up  with  a  fruit  pie.  And  there  again, 
you  know,  servants  have  no  discretion.  If  I  were  to  say, 
*  Mary,  go  and  buy  damsons  for  a  pie,'  she  would  get  them, 
though  they  were  scarce  and  stale,  and  never  think  to  tell 
me  that  apples  were  plentiful.  No,  my  dear,  depend  on 
it,  where  the  income  is  as  limited  as  ours  is,  a  great  deal 
depends  on  seeing  after  everything  one's  self.  It  takes  up 
a  good  deal  of  time,  but  I  hke  to  have  a  good  and  plentiful 
table.  I  don't  like  any  stinting,  or  \o  have  AmeHa  com- 
plain of  the  butter  or  the  fruit,  or  say  the  tradespeople 
cheat  us." 

"  Certainly,  that  would  not  be  pleasant,"  I  would  re- 
mark. 

"  Not  at  all  pleasant,  my  dear,"  she  would  reply ;  "  so 
you  see  I  have  plenty  to  do ;  for  I  always  make  the  pie- 
crust myself,  Mary  not  being  much  of  a  cook.  Indeed, 
we  could  not  expect  her  to  be,  at  the  wages  we  give  her. 
H«r  crusts  are  heavy.  Well,  all  that  pretty  nearly  takes 
up  my  morning ;  for,  between  ourselves,  I  very  often  wash 
the  tea-things,  shell  peas,  and  do  little  things  of  that  kind, 
so  that  all  may  go  on  quietly,  and  meals  be  ready  at  the 
right  time ;  for  I  like  them  to  have  everything  comfortable. 
And  but  for  this  kind  of  help,  I  assure  you  we  should  not 
be  nearly  so  comfortable  as  we  are." 

I  could  easily  beheve  this,  and  Miss  Perkins  said  it 
as  if  it  was  the  most  natural  thing  in  the  world  that  she 


12  Studies  for  Stories. 

should  like  these  various  occupations,  as  they  added  to 
the  happiness  of  others. 

So  much  for  the  eldest  Miss  Perkins.  She  might  per- 
haps have  been  called  a  twaddler  in  society,  but  in  her 
own  sphere  she  was  useful  and  beloved ;  and  moreover, 
by  her  economy  and  good  marketing,  she  saved  enough  to 
add  greatly  to  the  comfort  of  several  poor  old  women  and 
sickly  children,  in  whose  behoof  I  often  saw  very  savory- 
looking  messes  carried  out,  smoking  hot,  in  little  tin  cans, 
with  slices  of  bread  laid  on  the  top,  by  way  of  lids.  Her 
name  was  Robina,  and  her  youngest  sister  called  her 
"  Bobby." 

The  second  sister.  Miss  Anne,  was  a  particularly  lady- 
like woman.  She  had  deHcate  health,  and  required  to  be 
very  much  in  the  open  air.  She  also,  as  I  soon  saw,  had 
a  decided  Hne  of  work.  She  undertook  almost  the  entire 
management  of  the  garden. 

It  was  really  a  ver^  good-sized  garden,  and  was  quite  as 
full  of  scarlet  geraniums,  heliotropes,  and  all  the  gayer 
kinds  of  tender  plants,  as  the  gardens  of  the  wealthier 
neighbors. 

Miss  Anne,  I  understood,  took  great  pains  to  nurse 
young  plants  through  the  winter,  keeping  them  in  sunny 
windows  and  in  a  dry  store-room.  And  it  was  surprising 
to  see  how,  every  day,  she  conscientiously  went  out,  and 
worked  among  her  flower-beds ;  regularly  setting  herself 
a  certain  task,  and  doing  it  as  a  duty.  She  had  no  help, 
excepting  that  a  little  boy  came  once  a  week  to  weed  the 
walks.  And  I  observed  that  she  by  no  means  confined 
herself  to  the  care  of  the  flowers,  but  cultivated  beetroot, 
lettuces,  and  all  kinds  of  vegetables. 

"  You  see,  my  dear,"  Miss  Robina  remarked  to  me,  "  we 
could  not  afford  to  keep  a  man :  it  would  not  pay  us,  but 
all  that  Ann  can  raise  is  pure  gain ;  for  we  save  seeds,  and 
exchange  cuttings  with  our  neighbors.     The  flower-garden 


»  The  Ctmiberers.  13 

costs  nothing,  and  besides  being  a  pleasure  to  us  all,  it 
now  looks  creditable  and  cheerful ;  and  if  Anne  did  not 
spend  her  mornings  in  it,  it  would  run  to  waste,  for  neither 
Sarah  nor  I  have  time  to  attend  to  it  And  you  know  it 
would  be  very  disheartening  to  us  to  live  in  a  wilderness  ; 
it  would  affect  our  spirits.  Now  I  say  that  Providence  fits 
us  beautifully  for  our  several  spheres  :  for  Anne  is  able  to 
sit  indoors  very  little  ;  but,  by  taking  the  garden  under  her 
care,  she  provides  herself  with  occupation,  and  prevents 
herself  from  thinking  that  she  is  of  no  use.  She  keeps  us 
always  gay  and  neat,  and  besides,  without  robbing  the 
garden  of  more  flowers  than  we  can  well  spare,  she  gives 
away  many  every  season  to  a  poor  orphan  girl  who  sells 
them,  and  thus  gains  money  enough  to  clothe  herself. 
You  must  have  observed  Anne's  violet-bed,  my  dear?" 

"  Yes  " ;  I  said  I  had  done  so,  and  noticed  how  carefully 
they  were  watered  and  weeded. 

Miss  Robina  smiled.  "Anne  calls  them  her  charity 
purse,"  she  replied.  "  Those  autumn  violets  are  very 
much  liked  by  the  visitors.  Anne  found  it  rather  a  bur- 
den to  her,  when  first  we  came  here,  to  spend  so  much 
time  in  the  garden,  but  she  was  determined  to  go  through 
with  it,  and  now  she  likes  it  very  much.  I  don't  know 
what  we  should  do  without  her,  I  am  sure ;  for  I  don't 
know  anything  more  melancholy  than  living  in  a  garden 
full  of  weeds ;  and  Ameha,  who  is  so  subject  to  low  spir- 
its, often  complains  as  it  is,  when  Anne  goes  out,  or  is  ill, 
so  that  the  place  gets  a  little  disorderly." 

So  much  for  the  second  sister :  let  me  now  introduce 
you  to  the  third. 

Of  Miss  Sarah  Perkins  it  might  certainly  be  affirmed, 
that  neither  in  person,  voice,  nor  manner  was  she  an 
attractive  individual.  Excepting  when  she  took  her  daily 
walk,  she  was  almost  always  seated  near  a  window,  at 
work.     She  certainly  would  have  thought  it  a  great  hard' 


14  Studies  for  Stories. 

ship  to  go  shopping,  or  tend  flower-beds.  She  was  never 
asked  to  do  so :  on  the  contrary,  it  seemed  to  be  an  un- 
derstood thing  that  the  pleasantest  corner  of  the  window 
belonged  to  her,  and  that  there  her  Htde  table  and  her 
great  work-basket  were  to  stand.  She  was  to  begin  to 
stitch,  and  no  one  was  to  molest  her. 

I  did  not,  at  first,  particularly  like  Miss  Sarah.  She 
was  blunt,  and  not  so  much  of  a  gentlewoman  as  the  other 
sisters ;  and  sometimes  when  I  went  out  with  Miss  Per- 
kins to  see  her  favorite  poor  people,  I  used  to  be  sur- 
prised at  the  fervor  with  which  they  would  inquire  after 
her;  and  I  really  could  not  commend  their  taste,  for  I 
thought  her  by  no  means  interesting,  and  perhaps  a  little 
snappish  sometimes.  But  Miss  Perkins  one  day  put  an 
end  to  my  wonder.  "  You  see,  my  dear,"  she  began,  for 
every  speech  of  hers  had  this  little  exordium ;  "  you  see, 
my  dear,  it  is  a  very  fortunate  thing  for  us  that  Sarah  is 
wilHng  to  devote  herself  to  her  needle  as  she  does ;  for 
Anne  and  I  have  very  little  time,  and  Amelia  could  never 
bear  work,  excepting  fancy-work.  Now,  fancy-work,  such 
as  crochet  and  lambs'-wool  patterns,  are  pretty,  no  doubt, 
but  they  are  not  of  much  use  in  a  family  like  ours.  How- 
ever, Amelia  considers  it  not  lady-like  to  sit  turning  gowns 
or  darning  table-cloths  in  the  drawing-room ;  and  as  she 
never  sits  anywhere  else,  she  does  no  work  but  what  is  fit 
for  that  room.  So,  as  I  was  saying,  my  dear,"  she  con- 
tinued, "it  is  a  most  fortunate  thing  that  Sarah  is  so 
willing  to  work  for  us  all.  She  does  nearly  all  our  plain 
work,  and  as  to  trimming  bonnets,  making  mantles,  turn- 
ing gowns  and  cloaks,  and  everything  of  that  kind,  she  so 
entirely  undertakes  it  all,  that  a  dressmaker's  bill  is  almost 
unknown  to  us.  She  has  such  an  eye  for  a  pattern,  my 
dear;  and  that,  you  know,  is  a  great  advantage.  We 
should  often  look  very  shabby,  if  it  was  not  for  her.  And 
then,  it  is  surprising  how  she  can  cut  down  gowns  and 


The  Cumberers.  15 

cloaks,  ancJ  turn  them,  and  make  them  look  decent  and 
creditable  for  the  poor,  and  with  what  a  httle  expense  she 
can  make  warm  quilts  and  .wraps  for  our  poor  old  rheu- 
matic neighbors.  It  would  be  a  sad  thing  for  us,  and  for 
a  good  many  beside  us,  if  anything  were  to  happen  to 
Sarah." 

These  were  the  ladies  of  the  first  family. 

I  now  come  to  the  character  of  her  who  caused  me  so 
many  doubts  and  speculations.  My  doubts  were  (among 
others)  what  the  mission  of  Miss  Amelia  Perkins  could 
possibly  be  in  this  world,  and  my  speculations  were  (among 
others)  as  to  who  would  be  the  worse  off  if  she  were  taken 
from  it,  and  who  would  be  the  better. 

Miss  Amelia  Perkins  never  did  anything. 

Let  me  not,  however,  be  misunderstood.  When  I  say 
that  she  never  did  anything,  I  mean  that  she  never  did 
anything  that  she  designed  to  be  for  the  comfort  or  assist- 
ance of  others.  There  were  no  duties  that  she  habitually 
performed  ;  there  was  no  place  that  she  occupied ;  no  one 
looked  to  her,  or  depended  on  her  for  anything ;  no  one 
seemed  to  be  the  better  for  her ;  she  seemed  to  have  no 
more  to  do  ^vith  the  course  of  that  stream  of  life  on  which 
she  floated  than  the  least  little  piece  of  weed  may  have, 
that,  being  detached  from  its  stem,  goes  sailing  down  its 
native  brook  towards  the  sea. 

Miss  Amelia  Perkins  was  moderately  good-looking,  and 
to  strangers  had  rather  a  pleasing  manner.  She  thought 
it  unladylike  ever  to  bustle  and  be  in  a  hurry,  as  her  sis- 
ters sometimes  were  ;  she  often  said  people  could  do  what 
they  had  to  do  without  that.  Accordingly,  she  was  never 
in  a  bustle  ;  but  then,  as  I  said  before,  she  never  had  any- 
thing particular  to  do. 

She  felt  that  it  was  a  painful  thing  to  be  in  straitened 
circumstances,  and  soon  confided  this  pain  to  me.  She 
said  it  often  weighed  on  her  spirits,  and  her  sisters,  being 


1 6  Studies  for  Stories. 

less  sensitive,  did  not  so  much  feel  the  trial  ot  it.  "And 
it  seems  so  hard,"  she  said,  "  to  have  so  little  to  spend  on 
one's  clothes  ;  the  others,  not, having  much  taste  in  dress, 
don't  mind  it.  Besides,  being  so  much  older,  it  matters 
less  to  them." 

"  Excepting  your  sister  Bessie,"  I  observed. 

"  O  yes,  Bessie,"  she  replied,  "  Bessie." 

"Well,"  I  remarked,  "is  it  not  natural  that  Bessie 
should  like  to  be  well  dressed  ?  " 

"Oh,  Bessie,"  she  repeated:  "why,  Bessie  is  so  very 
plain,  that  it  would  be  absurd  in  her  to  expect  to  be  ad- 
mired, even  if  she  were  handsomely  dressed." 

I  replied  that  I  had  always  heard  it  said,  that  the  hand- 
somer people  were,  the  less  dependent  they  were  on  dress. 

Miss  Amelia  did  not  appear  to  agree  with  my  remark, 
and  when  I  went  on  to  say  that  I  thought  Bessie  a  re- 
markably happy  person,  and  one  who  seemed  particularly 
contented,  she  rephed  that  she  supposed  Bessie  was  satis- 
fied with  her  lot ;  she  saw  no  reason  why  she  should  be 
otherwise  ;  and  then  she  said  that  all  her  sisters  were  very 
fond  of  Bessie.  "  In  fact,"  she  continued,  "  every  one 
must  see  what  an  unfair  difference  they  make  between  us." 

I  could  not  but  open  my  eyes  at  this,  and  purposely  mis- 
understanding her,  I  said,  "  You  mean,  perhaps,  that  they 
always  ask  Bessie  to  do  the  errands,  and  write  the  letters, 
and  read  the  newspaper  to  Miss  Sarah,  while  she  is  at 
work ;  things  which  they  never  think  of  asking  you  to  do. 
Yes,  that  does  seem  rather  unfair." 

Miss  Amelia,  on  this,  fixed  her  cold  gray  eyes  on  me, 
;ind  not  being  quite  sure  whether  I  spoke  in  earnest  or  in 
irony,  sat  down  to  the  piano,  and  never  favored  me  with 
any  further  confidence.  Notwithstanding  which,  we  be- 
came so  thoroughly  aware,  Miss  Amelia  and  myself,  that 
we  mutually  disliked  each  other,  that  we  shortly  made  it 
evident  to  the  other  ladies  of  the  family ;  in  consequence 


The  Cuniberers.  \y 

of  which,  I  received  some  hints  from  the  excellent  Miss 
Sarah,  which  I  thought  it  incumbent  on  me  to  attend  to. 

You  must  know  that  Miss  Bessie  Perkins  had  a  great 
wish  to  learn  sketching,  and  I  offered  to  teach  her ;  but  as 
she  had  a  good  deal  to  do  in  helping  her  sisters,  several 
days  passed  before  she  could  take  a  lesson.  One  very- 
clear  afternoon,  Bessie  announced  that  she  could  go  with 
me  ;  and  we  were  ready,  and  just  about  to  start,  when  she 
exclaimed,  "  Oh,  the  letter  !  I  quite  forgot  it.  How  troub- 
lesome ! " 

"  Must  it  be  written  to  day  ?  "  I  inquired. 

"  O  yes,"  she  replied ;  "  because  it  is  a  business  letter 
to  our  trustees,  and  Sarah  is  going  to  dictate  it  to  me." 

"  Then  one  person  can  write  it  as  well  as  another,"  said 
I,  mischieyously ;  "  you  had  better  ask  Amelia  to  do  it." 

"  Ameha  is  just  beginning  to  practise,"  said  Bessie  ;  and 
in  truth  I  heard  the  old  cracked  piano  sounding  up  stairs. 

"  I  will  tell  her  you  want  to  go  out,"  I  exclaimed,  "  and 
no  doubt  she  will  write  it,  for  she  has  been  out."  So  I  ran 
up  stairs,  and  delivered  my  message.  Miss  Amelia's  brow 
clouded:  "It  really  is  a  strange  thing,"  said  she,  "that 
Bessie  cannot  do  her  own  business  herself.  I  heard  her 
myself,  at  breakfast-time,  offer  to  write  that  letter." 

"  But  she  has  been  helping  Miss  Sarah  all  the  morning," 
said  I,  "  and  I  did  not  know  that  the  letter  was  more  her 
business  than  yours." 

"  Sarah  should  have  released  her  sooner,"  said  Amelia, 
coldly. 

Finding  me  bent  on  gaining  my  point,  she  at  last  said 
that  perhaps  she  might  do  it  when  she  had  done  prac- 
tising ;  but  on  my  reminding  her  that  that  would  be  too 
late  for  the  post,  she  began  again  at  the  piano,  and  as  I 
could  obtain  no  satisfactory  answer  as  to  whether  she 
would  or  would  not  do  it,  I  was  obliged  to  shut  the  door, 
and  come  down  stairs  again  in  no  very  amiable  humor,  for 

B 


1 8  Studies  for  Stories. 

I  was  angry  that  my  favorite  Bessie  was  to  be  debarred  of 
her  walk,  and  that  Amelia  should  be  allowed  to  enjoy  the 
fruits  of  all  her  sisters'  labors  without  contributing  any- 
thing to  them.  Bessie  had  already  taken  off  her  bonnet, 
and  was  writing  at  Miss  Sarah's  dictation. 

"Miss  Sarah,"  I  began  —  "I  understand,  my  dear,"  she 
answered,  nodding ;  "  we  shall  find  it  less  trouble  by  far  to 
do  it  ourselves  than  get  it  done  for  us." 

She  did  not  speak  bitterly,  but  as  if  it  was  a  matter  of 
course. 

As  the  affair  was  no  business  of  mine,  it  was  a  pity  that 
I  interfered  further  in  it,  by  saying,  "  Miss  Sarah,  whose 
gown  are  you  mending  ?  " 

She  smiled,  as  if  amused  at  my  remark  and  my  heat  in 
the  matter,  and  replied  that  it  was  Amelia's.  "I  know 
Ameha  means  to  go  out  again  and  see  the  steamer  come 
in,"  she  said ;  "  and  I  don't  choose  she  should  do  it  with 
her  gown  in,  this  state." 

"  But,"  said  I,  "  if  it  were  not  mended,  she  could  not  go 
out,  and  then  she  would  have  time  to  write  the  letter." 

"  Yes,  my  dear,  she  could,"  said  Miss  Sarah ;  "  and  it 
would  be  a  discredit  to  us  —  I  've  been  ashamed  of  it  some 
time  past  —  or  she  could  wear  her  best  gown,  and  that  we 
cannot  afford." 

This  explanation  was  unanswerable.  "  Come,  my  dear," 
said  Miss  Sarah,  who  just  then  waf  in  a  very  good  humor, 
"suppose  you  help  me  a  little."  So  saying,  she  put  a 
sleeve  into  my  hand,  and  I  took  it  with  a  very  good  grace, 
for  I  was  ashamed  of  having  interfered.  And  I  sat  down 
quietly,  and  proceeded  to  trim  it  with  fresh  gimp. 

When  the  letter  was  finished,  I  returned  the  sleeve,  and 
Miss  Sarah  asked  me  if  I  felt  any  cooler ;  she  laughed, 
and  I  could  not  forbear  saying  that  there  were  some  things 
which  provoked  my  temper  very  much. 

"  My  dear,"  she  answered,  and  hesitated,  but  presently 


The  Cumberers.  19 

proceeded,  with  a  sigh,  "  you  would  find  this  provocation 
quite  beyond  your  powers  to  set  right." 

"  I  am  sure  if  I  were  you,"  I  said,  "  I  should  not  be  so 
patient." 

"  Sarah,"  said  Bessie,  laughing,  "  Miss  T.  says  she  can- 
not think  what  Amelia's  mission  is,  —  I  told  her  Amelia 
had  no  particular  mission." 

"  Did  you,  child  ?  "  said  Miss  Sarah.  "  Well,  if  Miss  T. 
lived  here  long,  she  would  find  that  Amelia  had  a  very  de- 
cided mission." 

"What  may  it  be.  Miss  Sarah  ?"  I  inquired. 

"  To  teach  you  forbearance  and  patience,  my  dear,"  she 
answered,  "  and  try  your  temper ;  for  at  present  I  think 
you  are  ignorant  what  sort  of  a  temper  you  happen  to 
have.  Ah  !  we  none  of  us  know  what  we  are,  till  we  are 
tried." 

"But,  Miss  Sarah,"  I  replied,  "it  seems  shocking  to 
think  that  some  people  should  be  sent  into  the  world  to 
teach  others  forbearance,  only  by  being  useless  or  unac- 
commodating." 

"  My  dear,"  she  answered,  "  far  be  it  from  me  to  say 
that  the  Almighty  designed  any  of  his  creatures  for  such  a 
purpose  ;  I  meant,  that  if  we  do  not  perform  the  good  part 
that  we  all  have  it  in  our  power  to  take  upon  us,  God  will 
make  our  evil  subservient  to  the  good  of  others.  God 
will  turn  our  very  faults  into  blessings,  for  our  neighbors. 
But,  my  dear,  poor  Amelia  is  young,  and  we  have  no  right 
to  judge  her ;  we  hope  she  may  improve,  and  I  feel  sorry 
that  I  have  been  betrayed  into  speaking  hastily  of  her." 

So  saying,  Miss  Sarah  rose,  and  folding  up  the  dress, 
sent  Bessie  up  stairs  with  it  After  which,  we  went  to 
sketch  ;  and  for  Miss  Amelia's  further  doings,  I  must  refer 
you  to  my  next  chapter. 


20  Studies  for  Stories. 


CHAPTER    II. 

MISS  Amelia's  high  connections. 

WHEN  an  author  has  no  startling  novelty  in  senti- 
ment, no  thrilling  incident,  no  forcible  argument 
to  present  to  a  reader,  is  it  of  any  use  to  inform  the  reader 
of  the  fact,  and  occupy  time  in  apologies  for  the  same  ? 
Or  shall  the  reader  be  left  to  find  it  out  for  himself,  as  he 
assuredly  will  do  ? 

Much  may  be  said  on  both  sides. 

In  general  I  take  the  second  course,  for  never  having 
any  startling  novelties  of  sentiment,  or  thrilling  incidents, 
or  forcible  arguments  to  present,  I  might  always  be  apol- 
ogizing. 

But  at  the  present  moment  I  feel  inclined  to  take  the 
first  course.  The  history  of  a  Cumberer,  dear  reader,  or 
fair  reader,  or  gentle  reader,  or  whatever  else  that  is  com- 
pHmentary,  you  expect  to  be  called,  (according  to  the  de- 
ceitful practice  of-  authors,  who  are  too  much  in  the  habit 
of  flattering  you  with  ideas  of  your  superiority  to  them- 
selves !)  the  history  of  a  Cumberer  can  only  contain  ac- 
counts of  those  duties  which  the  said  Cumberer  did  not 
perform,  those  incidents  in  which  she  took  no  part,  those 
projects  which  she  hindered,  those  hours  which  she  wasted, 
those  talents  which  she  did  not  improve,  those  acquaint- 
ances who  wished  her  away,  and  those  relations  who  bore 
with  her  as  with  a  cross  appointed  for  them.  Such  is  this 
history,  and  I  apologize  ;  but  I  will  not  again  address  you, 
my  reader,  by  any  endearing  name,  or  any  name  which 
takes  for  granted  imaginary  excellences,  since  for  anything  I 


The  Cumberers.  21 

know  you  may  be  a  Cumbejer ;  and  since,  if  I  had  not  felt 
morally  certain  that  among  my  readers  were  some  charac- 
ters like  Miss  AmeUa  Perkins,  I  never  would  have  set  my 
pen  to  these  pages. 

But  what,  after  all,  did  Ameha  Perkins  do,  and  what  did 
she  leave  undone,  that  she  is  so  severely  spoken  of  ?  Let 
me  answer  the  question  by  an  illustration/  If  you  have  a 
piano,  one  note  of  which  in  the  treble  is  mute,  not  one 
tune,  even  of  the  simplest  kind,  can  be  played  on  it,  —  no 
music  worth  having  can  be  drawn  from  it,  without  making 
this  defect  manifest ;  and  yet  the  note  is  not  actively  offen- 
sive, it  merely  does  not  sound.  But  now  suppose  your 
note  not  mute,  but  merely  out  of  harmony  with  the  others, 
would  it  not  spoil  your  music  still  ? 

Now,  call  the  piano  a  family,  and  call  the  Cumberer  a 
faulty  note,  and  you  at  once  see  the  harm  she  does ;  she 
makes  the  tune  imperfect  when  it  does  not  sound,  and  when 
it  does  sound,  jars. 

But  to  return  to  my  story. 

Bessie  and  I  went  out  to  sketch,  and,  sitting  on  the  warm 
sea-beach,  we  talked  together  about  many  things,  and  among 
those  things,  about  Ameha. 

"  It  surprises  me  to  see  you  all  take  this  so  coolly,"  I 
said. 

"  How  can  we  help  it  ?  "  answered  Bessie.  "  Sometimes 
Bobby  says  she  thinks  it  was  at  school  that  Ameha  learned 
to  be  ashamed  of  jnaking  herself  useful  in  the  house." 

"  But  that  does  not  apply  to  writing  letters." 

"  No  ;  but  there  are  many  things  that  she  thinks  not 
proper  for  a  gentlewoman's  occupation,  and  she  does  not 
do  them." 

"  She  went  to  school,  then  ? " 

"  Yes,  to  be  sure.  The  elder  ones  thought  we  ought  to 
have  a  good  education,  for  the  property  we  Uve  on  is  prin- 
cipally theirs.    It  was  their  mother's,  and  does  not  come  to 


22  Studies  for  Stories. 

us  when  they  die.  Bobby  blames  herself  for  sending  us  to 
such  a  good  school,  but  then  Anne  says,  if  we  had  gone 
tp  an  inferior  one  we  should  not  have  learnt  accomplish- 
rfients  so  well ;  and  as  we  may  have  to  live  by  teaching, 
if  we  survive  our  sisters,  they  thought  accomplishments 
necessary." 

So,  then,  it  was  through  the  kindness  and  self-denial  of 
her  sisters  that  Miss  Amelia  had  learnt  those  accomplish- 
ments which  gave  her  now,  as  she  thought,  a  right  to  de- 
spise them ! 

How  many  mothers  there  are  who  are  in  the  same  case ! 
How  many  parents  have  toiled  to  give  their  children  ad- 
vantages which  they  principally  use  in  finding  out  those 
parents'  deficiencies  ! 

I  went  on  diligently  with  the  sketching,  and  said  noth- 
ing, but,  unlike  the  parrot  in  the  fable,  "  I  thought  the 
more." 

That  night,  after  I  was  in  bed,  I  heard  a  great  deal  of 
noise  in  the  street,  but  it  did  not  hinder  me  from  going  to 
sleep,  though  it  filled  my  dreams  with  impressions  of  jan- 
gling bells,  rumbling  carts,  passing  footsteps,  and  great 
confusion. 

I  woke  later  than  usual,  and,  to  my  astonishment,  was 
told  that  scarcely  a  person  in  the  town  had  slept  but  my- 
self, for  that  a  village,  not  two  miles  off,  was  discovered  at 
midnight  to  be  on  fire  in  three  places.  The  cottages  were 
thatched  and  closely  built,  and  by  sunrise  were  almost  en- 
tirely burnt  down. 

There  was  great  commotion  in  the  town  all  that  day ; 
the  sufferers  were  lodged  in  the  public  library,  a  soup 
'  kitchen  was  opened,  committees  were  formed,  and  the 
ladies  of  the  town  set  a  clothing  fund  on  foot,  and,  to 
make  the  money  go  further,  agreed  to  cut  out  and  make 
all  the  garments  themselves. 

Now  it  happened  that  Amelia,  during  a  visit,  had  made 


The  Cumherers.  23 

the  acquaintance  of  a  certain  Mrs.  Blount,  —  the  Honora- 
ble Mrs.  Blount,  of  G Hall,  —  and  had  contrived  to 

please  her  very  much.  This  lady  had  just  arrived  at  the 
place  with  her  family,  and  Amelia  was  only  waiting  till  a 
certain  etiquette,  peculiar  to  the  place,  had  been  complied 
with,  to  call  upon  her. 

Being  charitable  and  influential,  this  lady  was  chosen  to 
canvass  a  portion  of  the  town  for  the  clothing  fund,  and 
when  Amelia  heard  it  she  became  extremely  anxious  that 
ever)('thing  in  their  house  and  garden  should  appear  to  the 
best  advantage  during  Mrs.  Blount's  call.  She  dressed 
early  in  her  best,  and  was  seated  in  the  drawing-room, 
occupied  with  some  elegant  piece  of  fancy-work,  when 
Mrs.  Blount  was  announced,  with  Captain  White,  her 
brother. 

They  sat  a  few  minutes  with  Amelia,  and  then  the  sisters 
entered,  bringing  me  with  them  to  contribute  my  mite. 

Mrs.  Blount  unfolded  her  errand,  and  Miss  Anne  said 
that  they  heartily  approved  of  the  cause,  and  gave  most 
willingly,  though  they  could  give  but  little. 

Mrs.  Blount  politely  remarked,  that  if  all  families  gave  a 
little,  the  sufferers  would  have  no  reason  to  complain. 

Miss  Bobby  then  produced  the  purse,  and  laid  some 
money  on  the  table.  I  saw  Amelia  color  and  look  annoyed 
as  her  eye  dropped  on  the  money. 

Mrs.  Blount  received  it  graciously.  "  And  will  you  help 
us  to  make  up  some  of  the  clothing  ? "  said  she,  persua- 
sively. 

"  With  pleasure,"  cried  Bobby. 

"  With  all  my  heart,"  said  Miss  Ann. 

"I  shall  be  very  happy,"  said  Miss  Sarah.  They  all 
spoke  at  once,  and  Bessie  and  I  expressed  our  wish  to  join. 

"  There  is  nearly  a  week  to  do  it  in,"  said  Mrs.  Blount. 
"On  Saturday  evening  it  is  to  be  returned  finished;  how 
much  may  I  send  ?  " 


24  Studies  for  Stories. 

"You  are  reckoning  on  my  assistance  of  course,  dear 
Mrs.  Blount,"  said  Amelia. 

"  O  yes,"  said  Mrs.  Blount,  smiling,  and  laying  her  hand 
on  Amelia's  arm,  "  that,  of  course,  but  don't  over-fatigue 
yourself,  my  dear.  Miss  Perkins,  I  hope  you  don't  allow 
Amelia  to  do  too  much." 

There  was  an  awkward  silence  for  an  instant,  then  Miss 
Anne  came  to  the  rescue  of  Bobby.  "  My  dear  sister  is  so 
careful  of  our  comfort,"  she  said  kindly,  "  that  no  one  is 
overworked  here  when  it  depends  upon  her." 

Miss  Sarah  then  named  a  certain  number  of  garments 
of  different  kinds.  "  We  can  do  so  much,"  she  said,  "  and 
return  them  punctually." 

"  Is  that  all  ?  "  said  Amelia.  And  to  do  her  justice  she 
spoke  in  ignorance,  for  she  knew  very  little  about  plain 
work. 

"  O,  my  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Blount,  in  a  low  voice,  "  you 
must  not  measure  every  one's  zeal  by  your  own";  then 
added  aloud,  "  I  am  sure  your  sister's  offer  is  most  lib- 
eral." 

"  It  is  not  a  question  of  how  much  we  are  willing  to  do," 
said  Miss  Sarah,  "  but  how  much  we  can  do  in  the  time. 
And  the  case  being  urgent,  I  think  if  we  all  help,  so  much 
can  be  done  in  the  time,  and  no  more." 

I  thought  it  seemed  rather  a  pity,  when  Amelia  was  so 
anxious  to  help,  that  more  was  not  undertaken. 

As  soon  as  Mrs.  Blount  had  retired,  Amelia  gave  her 
opinion  very  freely.  "  Such  a  beggarly  subscription  ! "  she 
exclaimed.  "  I'm  sure  Mrs.  Blount  will  think  us  so  mean. 
Why  can't  Robina  give  a  little  more  for  once,  instead  of 
lowering  us  in  the  eyes  of  such  fashionable  people  ?  " 

"  We  can  but  give  what  we  have  got,"  said  Anne,  calmly. 

Amelia  turned  away  muttering,  "  Then  why  can't  we  take 
more  of  the  work  ?  I'm  sure  I  could  do  twice  as  much, 
and  I  would,  rather  than  Mrs.  Blount  should  think  we 


The  Cumberers.  25 

care  nothing  for  what  she  is  so  zealous  about ;  it  looks  so 
mean." 

"  What  I  have  taken  I  shall  divide  into  seven  shares," 
said  Miss  Sarah,  "  two  for  myself,  and  one  for  each  of  you, 
and  if  we  do  that  we  shall  all  do  well.  I  hope  Miss  T., 
my  dear,  you  remembered  that  it  would  entail  some  trouble 
on  you  when  you  offered  to  join." 

"  O  yes,  Miss  Sarah ;  I  shall  not  go  out  so  much  till  my 
share  is  done." 

"  Excuse  me,  my  dear ;  you  are  here  on  purpose  to  be 
out  in  the  air." 

"  How  shall  I  do  the  work,  then.  Miss  Sarah  ?  " 

"  Why,  my  dear,  you  spend  a  good  deal  of  time  indoors 
in  reading,  and  singing,  and  drying  sea-weeds  (and  very 
pretty  occupations  those  are  for  your  age,  I  am  sure) ;  I  ad- 
vise you  to  give  up  all  that  for  this  week,  or  else  there  is 
still  time  to  tell  Mrs.  Blount  not  to  send  so  much  work." 

But  no,  I  did  not  choose  to  give  in ;  and  as  Miss  Sarah 
had  spoken  to  me  rather  as  to  a  child,  I  was  the  more  re- 
solved to  show  that  I  was  quite  equal  to  womanly  respon- 
sibiHties.  So  I  said,  rather  more  decidedly  than  the  occa- 
sion called  for,  that  indoors  I  would  touch  nothing  but  a 
needle  till  my  share  was  done. 

The  work  then  arrived,  and  Miss  Sarah  divided  it,  tak- 
ing a  double  quantity  to  herself. 

She  had  just  finished  the  division  when  Amelia  came  in, 
and  considering  how  anxious  she  had  been  that  more 
should  be  taken,  it  was  surprising  how  she  grumbled  at 
the  size  of  the  bundles.  She  inspected  them  all,  and  said 
they  were  very  unfairly  divided,  some  were  far  harder  than 
others. 

"  I  don't  think  so,"  said  Miss  Sarah ;  "but  if  it  is  so,  the 
advantage  is  yours,  my  dear ;  you  have  the  first  choice." 

After  tumbling  them  over  for  some  minutes,  Amelia 
chose  a  bundle  for  herself,  and  then  one  was  given  to  me. 
2 


26  Studies  for  Stories. 

It  certainly  was  large,  and  perhaps  my  face  betrayed  a 
little  dismay,  for  Miss  Sarah  presently  put  a  shirt  which 
she  had  already  fixed  into  my  hand,  and  said,  "  There,  go 
on  with  that,  child,  while  I  fix  some  of  yours  for  you." 

Right  glad  was  I  of  this  help  ;  she  put  as  much  work  in 
train  for  me  as  I  could  possibly  do  in  one  day,  and  then 
took  back  her  own. 

I  set  to  work  cheerfully ;  she  had  removed  all  my  diffi- 
culties ;  but  she  had  no  sooner  resumed  her  own  needle, 
than  Amelia  remarked  on  the  unfairness  of  her  proceed- 
ings. 

"  There  is  Miss  T.,  with  a  much  easier  bundle  than  mine, 
and  yet  you  fix,  and  fit,  and  set  for  her,  and  expect  me  to 
get  mine  done  in  the  same  time.  Why,  the  fixing  is  more 
than  half  the  trouble." 

"  I  wonder  you  are  not  ashamed  to  compare  yourself  to 
that  child,''  whispered  Miss  Sarah,  once  more  throwing 
down  her  own  work ;  "  here,  give  your  piece  to  me." 

It  makes  me  smile  now  to  remember  the  mingled  indig- 
nation and  shame  with  which  I  heard  the  words  "that 
child." 

Had  I  finished-  my  education,  and  was  I  a  head  taller 
than  Miss  Sarah,  and  should  J.  be  calkd  a  child?  I  had 
taken  to  my  heart  the  comfortable  doctrine  that  a  person 
could  but  be  grown-up,  consequently  I  was  as  much  grown- 
up as  a  woman  of  fifty.  Yet  the  world  would  persist  in 
making  all  sorts  of  allowances  for  me  that  I  did  not  thank 
them  for,  because  of  my  years  ;  how  very  hard. 

I  mention  this,  as  in  fairness  bound,  because  it  urged 
me  on  to  redoubled  diligence  ;  and  no  dress-maker  work- 
ing for  her  bread  ever  gave  her  mind  more  entirely  to  her 
work  than  I  did  mine  for  that  first  evening. 

One  by  one  the  sisters  dropped  in,  and  we  were  all  hard 
at  work  and  cheerful,  excepting  Amelia,  who  occupied  a 
good  deal  of  time  in  grumbling  about  her  bundle,  and 


The  Cumberers.  27 

arguing  with  Bessie  as  to  the  comparative  hardness  of 
linen  and  calico. 

At  length  she  settled  down,  worked  for  an  hour,  and 
then  declared  that  she  had  a  pain  under  her  left  shoulder. 

"  That  is  very  common,"  said  Miss  Sarah,  "  with  people 
who  are  not  accustomed  to  sit  at  the  needle." 

But  Ameha  declared  she  was  accustomed  to  it;  and 
began  to  argue  about  that,  till  she  made  herself  quite 
cross  ;  and  then  she  said  that  as  things  did  not  seem  to  go 
on  comfortably,  perhaps  she  had  better  read  aloud,  for 
there  was  nothing  but  arguing. 

The  sisters  agreed.  I  suppose  they  thought  it  was  a 
good  change,  for  she  was  doing  very  little  work,  and  an- 
noying them  by  her  temper.  So  Amelia  got  a  book,  but  it 
appeared  that  she  had  read  the  first  two  chapters,  and 
when  they  said  they  had  not,  she  opened  her  cold,  gray 
eyes,  and  asked  if  they  expected  her  to  begin  again. 

"  No,"  said  Bobby,  "  go  on  where  you  are." 

So  Amelia  went  on  ;  but  the  book  contained  a  story, 
and  she  read  a  page  or  two  with  seven'^1  interruptions, 
such  as  —  "  Who  is  Mrs.  Duncan  ?  "  "  Why,  I  told  you 
she  was  the  heroine's  mother."  "  Ay,  so  you  did ;  pass 
the  cotton,  Bobby.""  "  And  who  is  this  paternal  friend  ? " 
"  O,  I  told  you  before  I  began,  that  she  lived  with  an  old 
uncle."  "  Ah,  that's  him  then ;  just  tell  Mary  to  tell  the 
baker  we  don't  want  any  cottage  bread,  Bessie  ;  I  see  him 
coming  up  to  the  door.     Well,  go  on,  Amelia." 

"  O,  if  you  take  so  little  interest,  I  might  as  well  spare 
myself  the  trouble,"  said  Amelia,  in  her  most  morose  tones. 
"  It 's  very  disheartening  to  go  on  and  nobody  attending." 

*'  I  thought  you  were  reading  for  us,  not  yourself,"  said 
Miss  Sarah. 

"  So  I  am,"  answered  Amelia,  with  asperity. 

"  Then  we  must  stop  you  when  it  does  n't  suit  us  to  lis- 
ten," replied  Sarah. 


28  Studies  for  Stories. 

"  We  can  attend  now,"  said  Miss  Anne,  and  the  reading 
went  on  ;  evidently  teasing  the  good  ladies  very  much,  for 
the  baker  sent  in  a  message,  and  a  whispered  answer  had 
to  be  returned  by  Mary,  and  there  were  half-pence  wanted 
to  make  up  the  change  for  his  bill ;  this  had  to  be  made 
known  by  grimaces  to  the  sisters,  and  one  and  another  pro- 
duced pence  from  her  pocket,  till  the  amount  was  sufficient, 
and  then  an  odd  penny  rolled  under  the  table,  and  Bessie 
stooped  to  pick  it  up,  while  a  whisper  went  round  that  the 
black  cotton  reel  was  missing,  and  Bessie  diving  once 
more,  bumped  her  head,  upon  which  they  all  cried  out, 
"  Bless  me  !"  This  was  too  much  ;  Amelia  shut  the  book 
with  a  sudden  jerk,  and  exclaimed,  "  If  you  're  determined 
not  to  hear,  I  may  as  well  read  to  myself." 

"  Do,"  said  Miss  Sarah ;  accordingly  she  did,  and  so 
ended  the  first  evening,  much  more  pleasantly,  I  must  say, 
than  it  had  begun. 

Not  to  make  a  short  story  long,  on  Tuesday  evening 
Amelia  was  very  much  behindhand.  On  Wednesday, 
when  walking-time  came,  she  asked  me  to  go  and  call  with 
her  on  the  Blounts.  I  could  have  no  objection,  and  she 
came  up  with  me  to  my  room,  chose  what  she  wished  me 
to  wear,  and  dressed  me  herself  with  great  attention  ;  then 
she  arrayed  herself  in  her  best,  and  we  paid  our  call. 

I  was  surprised,  and  felt  rather  ashamed  of  the  way  in 
which  she  spoke  of  her  sisters  to  Mrs.  Blount.  I  was  sure 
it  would  give  her  friend  the  impression  that  they  were  pur- 
posely eccentric,  dressed  shabbily  from  mere  love  of  singu- 
larity, and  for  the  same  reason  made  their  own  dresses  and 
cakes  themselves. 

It  flashed  into  my  mind  that  she  had  superintended  my 
toilet  and  taken  me  with  her  because  I  was  better  dressed 
than  her  excellent  sisters  would  have  been.  I  was  ashamed 
of  myself  for  suspecting  her  motive,  when  I  found  she  was 
leading  me  to  mention  some  people  of  rank  in  our  neigh- 


The  Cumberers. 


29 


borhood,  with  whom  I  happened  to  have  been  staying. 
She  did  it  so  cleverly  that  I  was  a  mere  tool  in  her  hands, 
and  I  thought  she  wished  to  exalt  her  companion  by  way 
of  raising  herself. 

But  when  we  had  left  the  house,  it  seemed  to  me  that  I 
must  have  fancied  all  this,  Hll  she  took  me  to  pay  another 
call,  and  there  tried  to  do  the  same  thing ;  but  thougK  I 
was  afraid  of  her,  I  had  sense  enough  to  thwart  her. 

"  Bless  me,  my  dear,  what  a  pretty  dress  ! "  said  the 
simple-hearted  Miss  Bobby,  when  I  came  in. 

Miss  Sarah  asked  me  to  approach  her,  that  she  might 
see  how  the  skirt  was  trimmed ;  I  obeyed,  and  while  dis- 
playing it,  Amelia  went  up  stairs,  and  I  discovered  to  my 
surprise  that  the  sisters  did  not  know  she  meant  to  pay 
her  call  that  day,  and  when  she  did,  had  fully  intended  to 
accompany  her. 

That  evening  I  again  took  my  walk,  and  the  other  ladies 
being  busy  at  work,  Amelia  went  with  me,  stipulating  that 
as  she  was  obliged  to  go,  some  one  should  work  at  her 
bundle  in  the  mean  time.  I  knew  as  well  as  her  sisters  did 
that  she  wished  to  go,  though  she  thus  made  a  merit  of  it, 
but  neither  they  nor  I  supposed  that  she  would  remain 
out  till  it  was  dark,  that  more  of  her  work  might  be  done. 

I  knew  that  it  was  not  customary  for  two  young  ladies 
to  be  walking  about  in  the  dusk  among  crowds  of  fine 
folks,  but  Amelia  took  n^  out  so  far  that  I  was  sure  it 
would  be  very  late  when  we  reached  home.  At  last  she 
turned,  and  we  began  to  walk  back  quickly,  but  just  in  the 
most  pubHc  part  of  the  beach  she  heard  a  voice  that  she 
knew,  and  ashamed  of  being  seen,  she  seized  my  hand  and 
hurried  me  to  an  empty  bathing-machine ;  in  an  instant 
she  had  dragged  me  up  the  steps.  "  Come  in  here,"  she 
whispered,  "  Mrs.  Blount  is  coming,  and  I  would  n't  have 
her  see  me  out  here  at  night  for  a  good  deal ;  so  very 
unfashionable  ! " 


30  Studies  for  Stories. 

I  felt  heartily  ashamed  as  she  pushed  me  into  a  corner. 
The  voices  and  footsteps  approached ;  unfortunately  Mrs. 
Blount  and  her  companion  took  it  into  their  heads  to  sit 
.down  on  the  steps,  and  we  were  obliged  to  overhear  their 
conversation. 

There  was  nothing  but  canvas  between  us,  and  the 

voices  were  quite  distinct.     "  Her  father  is  Mr.  T , 

the  author  of ;  they  are  a  Highland  family." 

"  Poor  and  proud,  no  doubt,  like  the  rest  of  the  clan," 
said  another  voice. 

Something  followed  that  I  did  not  hear ;  my  cheeks 
were  tingling  with  shame  at  this  enforced  listening,  and 
Mrs.  Blount's  voice  went  on  still  speaking  of  me.  "  Yes, 
a  tall  slip  of  a  girl,  very  insipid,  and  no  companion  for  her^ 
but  a  lady,  and  that's  something." 

"Ah!"  rejoined  the  manly  voice,  "I  pity  that  sweet 
Amelia,  condemned  to  live  with  those  second-rate  old 
quizzes." 

Mrs.  Blount  sighed,  "  Poor  Amelia ;  I  must  have  her 
a  good  deal  with  me  while  I  'm  here  " ;  and  then  they  got 
up  and  walked  on,  saying  how  late  it  was,  and  we  sneaked 
out  of  the  machine  and  went  home  ;  Amelia  in  a  state  of 
the  highest  elation,  and  I  of  the  deepest  indignation  and 
shame. 

There  were  the  second-rate  sisters  hard  at  work,  and 
Amelia,  when  asked  why  she  was  so  late,  condescended  to 
scarcely  any  answer,  and  took  up  her  candle  with  an  air 
of  easy  superiority. 

The  next  day  at  breakfast  a  note  arrived  from  Mrs. 
Blount,  asking  Amelia  to  join  a  yachting  party  at  ten 
o'clock,  and  bring  her  young  friend  with  her. 

"  O,  of  course  we  shall  go,"  cried  Amelia. 

"  Let  Miss  T.  speak  for  herself,"  said  Bobby. 

As  Amelia  was  to  be  of  the  party,  it  was  no  self-denial 
to  me  to  decline,  which  I  did,  saying,  that  if  I  went  I  could 
not  finish  my  share  of  work. 


The  Cumberers.  31 

But  Amelia  was  determined  ;  it  was  cruel,  she  declared, 
to  deprive  her  of  almost  the  only  friend  she  cared  about, 
the  only  person  that  was  congenial  to  her,  or  sympathized 
with  her,  so  little  society  as  she  had,  so  little  to  vary  her 
existence  in  that  dull  place. 

At  last  her  sisters  were  worked  upon  so  far  as  to  ask  me 
to  go  as  a  favor  to  themselves  ;  but  the  conversation  in  the 
bathing-machine  was  fresh  in  my  mind,  and  I  held  back. 
And  none  of  themselves  could  go,  for  unluckily  Mrs. 
Blount  had  put  in  a  "  P.  S.  —  If  your  young  friend  cannot 
come,  we  shall  hope  to  see  you  both  some  other  day  " ;  thus 
taking  care  to  exclude  those  whom  she  had  ignorantly 
called  second-rate  people. 

Now  I  knew  the  work  was  almost  more  than  we  could 
do,  and  besides  (potent  reason  ! ),  I  had  been  called  a  child  ; 
I  knew  the  housekeeping  and  gardening  and  exercise  had 
to  be  set  aside  for  it,  and  had  heard  discussions  as  to  how 
late  on  Saturday  it  could  with  propriety  be  sent  in ;  so  I 
still  said  I  wished  to  do  my  work,  and  proposed  to  Amelia 
that  we  should  wait  and  both  go  another  time. 

But  she  was  much  my  senior,  and  had  made  me  a  little 
afraid  of  her  ;  she  was  determined  to  go,  and  after  a  very 
disagreeable  scene,  in  which  she  accused  her  sisters  of 
persuading  a  delicate  young  girl  to  sit  indoors  sewing  to 
the  injury  of  her  health,  moping  and  toiling,  which  she 
was  sure  her  parents  never  intended,  she  so  far  prevailed 
as  to  make  all  the  family  bent  upon  my  accepting  the  invi- 
tation. I  saw  they  had  been  touched  on  a  tender  point,  and 
were  much  pained.  I  declared  that  I  had  taken  the  work 
to  please  myself,  but  was  so  sorry  to  see  their  flushed  faces 
that  I  gave  way,  and  went  up  stairs  to  dress,  but  in  such 
an  ill  humor,  and  so  indignant,  that  I  took  care  to  let 
Amelia  know  that  I  was  only  going  to  please  her  sisters, 
and  not  to  please  her. 

I  will  not  attempt  to  describe  the  events  of  that  misera- 


32  Studies  for  Stones. 

ble  day.  Nicely  dressed,  and  rendered  a  little  more  good- 
tempered  by  our  walk  in  the  fresh  air,  Amelia  and  I  pre- 
sented ourselves  at  the  appointed  place.  We  were  re- 
ceived with  smihng  cordiality,  and  we  embarked. 

The  sun  sparkled  on  the  water,  but  the  wind  began  to 
freshen,  and  our  cheeks  began  to  fade,  till  shortly,  with  two 
other  miserable  girls  of  the  party,  we  were  led  down  stairs, 
and  shut  up  in  the  little  cabin,  and  there  we  dragged  out  a 
wretched  existence  till  it  was  quite  dark  night.  The  rest 
of  the  company,  not  being  ill,  enjoyed  themselves  ;  they 
had  music  and  a  splendid  collation,  and  they  made  a  great 
noise. 

It  was  ten  o'clock  when  the  yacht  made  the  pier,  and  we 
crawled  out,  finding  Miss  Perkins  and  Sarah  waiting  for 
us  in  some  anxiety,  for  they  thought  some  accident  must 
have  happened  to  make  us  so  late. 

But  I  must  defer  the  remainder  of  my  recollections  for  a 
future  chapter. 


The  Cuniberers.  33 


CHAPTER    III. 

AMELIA    OFFERS     HER    SERVICES. 

IT  was  quite  dark,  when,  exhausted  and  faint,  Amelia 
and  I  were  led  home  by  Miss  Perkins  and  Sarah. 
They  put  us  to  bed,  and  gave  us  dry  toast  and  hot  wine 
and  water.  Sarah  attended  to  Amelia,  and  I  fell  to  Miss 
Bobby's  share.  I  heard  the  motherly  creature  lamenting 
over  me  ;  wishing  she  had  let  me  stay  at  home,  and  declar- 
ing that  anxiety  had  made  her  quite  wretched  about  us 
both,  for  she  had  thought  how  it  would  be  when  the  wind 
began  to  rise,  and  (kind-hearted  woman !)  had  been  wish- 
ing all  day  that  she  had  been  there  instead  of  us,  for  she 
could  n't  bear  young  people  to  be  disappointed  when  they 
went  out  expecting  to  enjoy  themselves. 

Miss  Robina  was  still  sitting  by  my  bed,  consoHng  and 
petting,  when  I  fell  into  a  sound  sleep,  and  happily  forgot 
my  troubles. 

It  is  curious  how  sometimes  a  little  sound  heard  in  sleep 
will  influence  and  change  the  current  of  our  dreams.  It 
was  natural  that  I  should  dream  of  the  yacht,  but  odd  that 
I  should  mingle  with  this  the  idea  of  stitching.  I  dreamed 
that  it  was  dark  night,  and  that,  seated  on  the  deck,  Bobby 
and  Sarah  were  hard  at  work,  mending  the  torn  sail  of  the 
yacht.  The  wind  had  sunk ;  it  was  a  dead  calm,  and  the 
water  so  still  that  I  could  see  the  reflection  of  the  stars  on 
its  black  surface ;  some  candles  were  burning  beside  us, 
but  hard  as  the  sisters  worked,  the  rent  seemed  to  grow 
und6r  their  hands.  I  was  trying  to  help,  and  had  a  mis- 
erable certainty  that  till  this  sail  could  be  put  up,  we  never 
2*  c 


34  Studies  for  Stories. 

could  reach  the  land ;  therefore  I  was  frightened  to  find 
fresh  holes  every  moment,  and  to  hear  Bobby  say,  "  How- 
ever tliis  is  to  be  done  I  don't  know."  I  thought  how 
shocking  it  would  be  if  we  never  could  reach  the  land 
again  ;  but  in  another  instant  Sarah  said,  in  such  a  distinct 
voice,  "  Pass  the  cotton-reel,"  that  I  sprang  up  half-awake, 
exclaiming  that  I  could  not  find  it. 

I  saw  a  candle  in  my  room  ;  Sarah  and  Robina  were  sit- 
ting hard  at  work  by  my  table.  I  heard  the  sound  of  their 
needles  just  as  before  in  my  dream,  but  it  was  not  a  sail 
they  were  working  on,  it  was  one  of  those  bundles  of 
clothes.  Miss  Bobby  was  at  my  side  in  an  instant.  I  ex- 
claimed against  this  sitting  up,  said  I  was  quite  well,  and 
did  not  require  anything.  She  replied  that  I  was  very  fe- 
verish, and  she  could  not  have  slept  even  if  she  had  gone 
to  bed.  "  Besides,  my  dear,  I  thought  you  would  hke  a 
cup  of  tea  ;  the  teapot  is  kept  hot  for  you,  and  AmeUa  has 
just  had  some." 

I  could  not  decline  this  tempting  ofier.  Miss  Perkins 
presently  brought  me  some  tea  ;  and  when  I  expressed  my 
regret  at  giving  this  trouble,  she  declared  that  she  and  Sa- 
rah had  decided  to  sit  up  till  four  o'clock  to  get  on  with  the 
work,  for  they  knew  that  Amelia  and  I  would  be  fit  for 
very  Httle  the  next  day.  "  And  you  see,  my  dear,  when 
we  were  up,  it  was  no  trouble  just  to  steal  down  and  keep 
up  the  kitchen  fire.  And  neither  of  you  was  well  enough 
to  be  left  the  first  part  of  the  night,  so  it  was  fortunate  that 
we  had  this  work  to  do,  was  n't  it  ?  it  was  something  to 
keep  us  awake." 

Kind,  good  creature  ! 

She  and  Miss  Sarah  shortly  retired  to  bed,  leaving  me, 
as  I  thought,  quite  well ;  but  on  coming  down  the  next 
morning  I  found  I  could  do  very  little,  and  that  Amelia 
was  lying  on  the  sofa  in  a  very  feverish  state  of  mind,  sure 
that  if  she  could  have  some  beef  tea  she  should  be  better, 


The  Cumberers.  35 

and.  then,  when  Bobby  had  made  her  some  (Mary  not  be- 
ing a  good  hatid  at  it),  discovering  that  if  she  could  have 
had  it  earlier  in  the  day  it  would  have  done  her  good,  but 
now  she  did  n't  like  it.  In  short,  Amelia  was  very  cross  ; 
and  but  for  seeing  how  unpleasant  she  was  when  she  gave 
way  to  her  temper,  very  likely  I  should  have  been  cross  too. 

The  sisters  sat  all  the  morning  hard  at  work.  Amelia's 
bundle  was  scarcely  begun,  mine  was  one  whole  day  be- 
hindhand, yet  the  work  was  promised  for  Saturday,  and 
must  not  be  late,  because  the  poor  families  were  to  appear 
at  the  different  places  of  worship  on  Sunday,  when  some 
further  collections  were  to  be  made  for  them. 

Yet  though  Amelia  knew  this,  she  made  several  de- 
mands upon  her  sisters'  time,  and  never  said  a  word  which 
seemed  to  intimate  that  she  was  sorry  she  had  been  the 
cause  of  all  this  extra  work,  hurry,  and  fatigue,. or  that  she 
was  sorry  she  had  been  so  bent  upon  the  yachting  party. 
As  for  me,  I  believe  I  could  have  worked  if  I  had  been 
allowed  to  do  so  ;  but  being  under  their  care,  these  gener- 
ous women  could  not  bear  that  there  should  be  the  least 
shadow  of  cause  for  Amelia's  accusation  that  I  was  shut 
up  indoors  and  induced  to  work  by  them  ;  they  therefore 
took  advantage  of  their  authority  and  my  youth  to  forbid 
my  working  at  all  that  day. 

In  the  afternoon  Mrs.  Blount  called  to  inquire  how  we 
were,  and  took  Amelia  and  myself  for  a  drive  in  her  pony 
carriage.  I  sat  behind,  Amelia  in  front,  and  I  scarcely 
heard  any  of  the  conversation,  excepting  once  when  .we 
stopped  at  a  gardener's  ground,  that  Mrs.  Blount  might 
buy  some  fine  calceolarias.  While  we  were  waiting  for 
them,  I  heard  her  say  carelessly,  as  if  referring  to  a  matter 
of  no  consequence,  "  I  suppose  you  were  obliged  to  give 
some  of  the  work  you  took  to  your  servants."  I  did  not 
hear  Amelia's  answer ;  but  Mrs.  Blount's  remark  was  not 
without  its  effect,  for  when  Amelia  came  m  and  found  her 


36  Studies  for  Stories. 

sisters  hard  at  work  in  the  hot  parlor,  she  remarked  on 
the  folly  of  their  giving  themselves  all  the  trouble,  and 
asked  why  they  did  not  give  some  of  the  work  to  Fanny 
the  housemaid. 

"  She  has  not  time  for  more  work  than  I  always  expect 
of  her,"  said  Miss  Perkins. 

"  She  might  do  this  instead,  for  once,"  proceeded  Ameha. 

"Then  I  should  have  to  do  hers,"  said  Miss  Bobby, 
"  and  what  would  be  the  good  of  that  ? " 

But  Amelia  was  not  convinced.  "  Other  people's  ser- 
vants contrive  to  find  time,"  she  said.  "  Mrs  Blount  tells 
me  that  her  maid  and  the  nurse  have  done  a  great  deal  of 
that  work  this  week." 

"  Humph,"  said  Sarah. 

"  And  then  there's  Mary,"  continued  Amelia  ;  "  really  I 
do  n't  know  what  she  finds  to  do." 

"  You  know  very  little  about  a  cook's  work,"  said  Anne, 
calmly ;  "  your  saying  so  is  a  proof  of  it." 

Her  dispassionate  manner  seemed  to  communicate  itself 
to  Miss  JPerkins,  who  said,  more  good-humoredly  than  be- 
fore, "  Mary  has  a  good  deal  to  do  this  week  that  I  gener- 
ally undertake  myself" 

"  But  there  's  the  evening,  at  any  rate,"  persisted  Ameha, 
who  could  not  bear  to  be  always  proved  in  the  wrong. 
"  When  she  has  washed  the  dishes,  what  can  she  have  to 
do  more  ?  " 

"  Why,  if  you  really  want  to  know,"  said  Bessie,  with 
some  heat,  "  she  has  to  pluck  the  fowls  that  we  are  going 
to  have  for  dinner  to-morrow,  and  she  has  an  errand  to  do." 

"  Moreover,"  said  Bobby,  "  she  is  a  very  poor  hand  with 
her  needle,  and  I  should  be  sorry  to  triist  her  with  the 
work,  even  if  she  had  time." 

Amelia  said  it  was  a  very  strange  thing ;  and  on  my  re- 
marking, as  we  walked  up  stairs  to  take  off  our  bonnets, 
that  her  sisters  aH  looked  flushed  and  tired,  she  said,  "  No- 


The  Cumberers,  37 

body  shall  ever  make  me  believe  that  our  servants  cannot 
work  like  other  people's." 

"  But  only  consider,"  said  I,  "  Mrs.  Blount's  maid  has 
nothing  to  do  but  to  wait  on  her  personally ;  and  as  for  the 
nurse,  there  is  only  that  one  little  girl  to  attend.  She  can 
sit  at  work  for  hours  on  the  beach,  while  the  child  plays  at 
her  side." 

"  A  great  deal  you  know  about  these  matters,  no  doubt," 
said  Amelia,  in  a  taunting  voice.  "  However,  if  Robina 
and  all  of  them  choose  to  do  the  work  themselves,  I  have 
spoken  my  mind  about  it,  and  it  is  no  concern  of  mine. 
The  servants  can  do  it  if  they  will  tell  them,  and  if  they 
won't,  it  cannot  be  helped." 

To  this  speech,  not  having  learned  much  forbearance 
from  the  example  of  the  ladies  down  stairs,  I  returned  an 
answer  more  than  sufficiently  warm,  reminding  Amelia  that 
the  hurry  and  trouble  we  had  seen  below  was  solely  and 
exclusively  our  doing,  for  we  had  each  lost  two  days,  and 
if  we  had  done  our  part,  there  would  have  been  plenty  of 
time,  and  taking  part  with  the  sisters  for  their  indulgent 
forbearance. 

It  was  not  to  be  supposed  that  the  matter  would  rest 
there  ;  Amelia  answered,  and  we  wrangled  and  quarrelled 
for  fully  half  an  hour  with  much  ironical  civility  of  speech, 
but  considerable  bitterness  of  feeling,  the  ground  of  dispute 
being  shortly  forgotten,  till  in  the  midst  of  the  contest,  and 
when  we  were  both  so  much  excited  that  there  was  danger 
lest  our  temper  should  show  itself  in  heightened  voices,  as 
it  did  already  in  heightened  color,  I  heard  a  step  on  the 
stairs,  and  running  to  my  own  room,  shut  and  locked  my- 
self in,  and  refreshed  myself  with  a  fit  of  crying,  partly 
caused  by  vexation,  partly  by  humiliation.  It  did  me  a 
great  deal  of  good,  and  on  reflection  I  felt  heartily  ashamed 
of  myself,  for  I  knew  that  it  was  not*  my  business  to  inter- 
fere with  Amelia,  and  I  knew  that  I  had  not  done  so  with 


38  Studies  for  Stories. 

the  most  distant  hope  of  reforming  her,  but  only  for  the 
sake  of  speaking  my  mind.  And  all  this  while  I  might 
have  done  essential  good  if  I  had  been  working  down  stairs 
instead  of  quarrelling  up  stairs  ;  but  now  my  eyes  were  so 
red  that  I  was  ashamed  to  go  down,  and  I  had  to  spend 
another  half-hour  in  cooling  my  face  with  my  fan,  and  walk- 
ing up  and  down  my  room  with  the  window  open. 

I  went  down  at  last,  and  gave  a  little  help  ;  but  when  I 
retired  at  night,  I  felt  a  secret  conviction  that  unless  some- 
body sat  up  to  do  it,  the  work  would  not  be  finished  in 
time.  , 

I  lay  awake  thinking  of  this  till  I  heard  Amelia  come  up 
stairs,  and  Miss  Perkins  and  Sarah  follow  at  their  usual 
time ;  but  the  room  over  mine  remained  empty,  and  I  lay 
listening  to  the  striking  of  the  quarters  till  it  only  wanted 
a  quarter  to  three,  and  then  I  heard  footsteps.  It  was  as 
I  had  thought,  Anne  and  Bessie  were  stealing  up  to  their 
room,  and  treading  so  carefully  that  the  stairs  creaked,  as 
they  perversely  do  on  those  occasions,  ten  times  more  than 
under  less  guarded  feet. 

The  end  of  this  was  that  the  work  was  finished,  and  by 
three  o'clock  on  Saturday  sent  in.  No  one  blamed  Sarah 
for  having  named  too  large  a  quantity,  though  she  herself 
took  it  as  much  to  heart  as  if  she  had  miscalculated  their 
powers  on  purpose.  No  one  cared  either  to  find  fault  with 
Amelia ;  they  seemed  rather  to  think  that  they  ought  to 
,  have  known  better  than  to  depend  on  her ;  and  as  for  me, 
they  made  the  most  indulgent  allowance  for  my  deficien- 
cies, which  was  always  their  habit  while  I  stayed  with 
them. 

On  Monday  the  other  sisters  were  as  brisk  as  usual,  but 
Anne  was  evidently  unwell,  and  spent  the  morning  on  the 
sofa,  unable  to  go  into  her  garden.  Mrs.  Blount  called 
and  told  Ameha  and  me  (who  with  Anne  were  in  the  draw- 
ing-room) how  all  the   committee   had  remarked  on  the 


The  Cumberers.  39 

quantity  of  work  that  had  come  from  the  Misses  Perkins. 
"It  shows,"  said  Mrs.  Blount,  "  how  much  can  be  done 
by  combined  effort."  No  one  spoke.  Ameha  did  not  say 
anything,  and  I  could  not.  She  continued,  "  It  is  so  pleas- 
ant and  cheerful  when  such  a  large  circle  is  at  work  at 
once,  and  they  do  it  with  no  trouble  to  themselves.  I 
often  think  of  that  true  proverb,  '  Many  hands  make  light 
work.'  No  doubt  it  cost  you  less  trouble  than  the  small 
pieces  taken  by  single  people  cost  them." 

I  glanced  at  Amelia  when  this  was  said,  and  while 
explaining  to  Mrs.  Blount  that  I  had  not  done  nearly  the 
*  whole  of  my  share,  having  missed  two  entire  days,  and 
that  Miss  Perkins  and  Sarah  had  sat  up  to  do  it  for  me,  I 
saw  such  a  vivid  color  rise  in  Ameha's  cheeks,  that  I  knew 
she  was  ashamed  to  appropriate  Mrs.  Blount's  compli- 
ments to  herself,  though  she  had  not  the  honesty  to  dis- 
avow them. 

"And  now,  my  dears,  as  you  are  both  still  looking  a 
little  the  worse  for  that  wretched  yachting  affair,  suppose 
you  take  a  drive  with  me  this  afternoon  ?  " 

We  were  perfectly  well,  but  I  suppose  she  required  some 
reason  for  excluding  the  rest  of  the  family,  and  I  thought 
she  might  have  noticed  how  pale  Miss  Anne  looked  after 
the  confinement  and  fatigue  of  the  past  week. 

Amelia  assented  with  a  gentle  sweetness  of  manner, 
which  she  never  exhibited  but  to  strangers.  She  said  she 
often  felt  languid  in  hot  weather,  and  was  always  glad  of  air. 

I  declined ;  and  at  the  same  time,  as  Mrs.  Blount  was 
really  very  good-natured,  I  ventured  to  glance  at  her  and 
then  at  Miss  Anne.  It  seemed  to  strike  her  at  once  that 
she  had  not  been  civil,  and  she  said  with  a  very  good 
grace,  "  Perhaps  you  are  not  too  much  engaged  to-day  to 
go  with  us.  Miss  Perkins,"  putting  such  an  emphasis  on 
the  word  to-day,  as  seemed  to  say,  "  I  should  have  asked 
you  before  if  I  had  not  known  that  you  were  busy." 


49  Studies  for  Stories. 

Anne  looked  up  surprised,  but  not  displeased ;  she  admit- 
ted that  she  should  like  a  drive,  and  the  two  sisters  with- 
drew together  to  dress,  leaving  me  alone  with  Mrs.  Blount. 

I  was  extremely  glad  when  they  shut  the  door,  for  I  saw 
she  could  scarcely  refrain  from  laughing,  and  the  moment 
they  were  out  of  earshot,  she  exclaimed,  "  Now  you  uncon- 
scionable little  puss,  why  have  you  hampered  me  with  that 
faded  spinster  ?  Don't  you  know  that  she  must  sit  in  front 
in  virtue  of  her  seniority,  and'  Amelia  behind  ?  " 

"  Yes,  but  she  is  very  interesting,  Mrs.  Blount." 

"When  my  daughter  is  seventeen,  I  shall  not  expect 
her  to  dictate  to  seven-and-thirty." 

"But,  Mrs.  Blount  —  "  I  began. 

"  Pooh,  nonsense  !  I  tell  you  I  am  not  angry,  I  am  ex- 
tremely amused." 

I  thought  if  Miss  Anne  found  out  how  and  why  she  had 
been  invited  to  take  this  drive,  it  would  do  her  no  good,  so 
I  continued  to  tell  all  I  could  think  of  in  her  favor.  She 
seemed  interested,  and  called  me  a  female  Quixote,  and 
when  Anne  and  Amelia  came  in,  said,  to  my  great  confu- 
sion, "Well,  good-by,  Mentoria,  remember  you  are  to 
drive  with  me  to-morrow." 

Her  affectionate  manner,  and,  perhaps,  her  taking  Anne 
out,  made  Amelia  tremble  for  her  exclusive  possession  of 
this  fashionable  friend,  and  she  gave  me  a  very  black  look, 
which,  unfortunately,  Mrs.  Blount  saw,  and  was  thus  put 
into  possession  of  the  fact  that  AmeHa  would  rather  her 
sister  had  not  been  invited. 

They  were  out  a  long  time,  and  when  they  returned, 
Anne  seemed  Httle  refreshed,  and  Amelia  was  out  of  humor. 
Mrs.  Blount  had  scarcely  spoken  to  her  all  the  time.  "  In 
fact,"  she  said,  just  as  Anne  was  about  to  leave  the  room, 
"  it  must  have  been  equally  dull  for  us  both." 

"  Remember  that  I  did  not  ask  her  to  take  me,"  said 
Anne,  looking  back  before  she  shut  the  door. 


The  Cuinberers.  41 

"  No,"  muttered  Amelia,  "  I  have  to  thank  somebody 
else  for  that." 

I  dreaded  lest  Anne  should  hear,  and  when  Amelia  went 
on  with  sarcastic  politeness  to  say  how  much  she  was  in- 
debted to  me  for  interfering  between  her  and  her  friend,  I 
had  not  a  word  to  answer,  and  was  obliged  to  be  very  civil 
all  the  evening  to  avert  her  further  remarks. 

The  next  morning  Anne  was  too  ill  to  come  down,  and 
Bessie  told  me  that  she  never  could  sit  indoors  for  long  to- 
gether without  suffering  for  it  afterwards. 

This  was  said  before  Amelia,  who  fired  up  instantly,  and 
said  Anne  need  not  have  worked  unless  she  had  chosen. 
"  I  told  Robina  at  the  time,  that  it  could  be  done  easily 
enough  if  she  would  give  it  to  the  servants  as  other  people 
did." 

Bessie  made  no  answer.  She  was  pouring  out  tea  for 
tlie  invalid's  breakfast,  and  she  presently  carried  it  up 
stairs.  Many  times  during  the  day  I  saw  one  and  another 
of  the  sisters  running  up  stairs  with  the  various  little 
things  that  were  wanted  for  Anne's  comfort  j*  but  Amelia 
was  never  one  of  them.  In  the  evening  the  medical  man 
was  called  in,  and  his  report  evidently  made  Sarah  uneasy. 
Miss  Perkins  was  more  cheerful,  but  I  noticed  that  she  sat 
up  with  Anne  that  night,  and  the  next  day  was  tired  and 
dispirited. 

I  was  quite  struck  then  with  the  position  occupied  by  a 
Cumberer.  Nothing  went  on  well  in  the  household  affairs, 
because  the  ladies  were  withdrawn  from  their  usual  occu- 
pations, and  Amelia  did  not  attempt  to  throw  herself  into 
the  vacant  place.  She  evidently  had  no  idea  how  to  assist 
her  sisters,  even  if  she  had  wished ;  and  it  seemed  to  be 
a  maxim  firmly  fixed  in  her  mind  that  people  were  not 
overtasked,  not  anxious,  not  in  want  of  help,  not  glad  to 
be  helped,  unless  they  said  so.  She  remarked  to  me  during 
the  day,  that  knowing  how  to  nurse  and  wait  on  sick  peo- 


42  Studies  for  Stories. 

pie  was  a  gift,  not  a  thing  to  be  learned,  and  that  her  elder 
sisters  had  it.  In  truth,  I  did  not  wonder  that  they  did  not 
appeal  to  her  to  help  them,  for  I  think  nothing  is  so  miser- 
able to  a  sick  person  as  to  feel  that  she  has  an  unwilling 
nurse,  and  to  be  afraid  of  asking  for  what  she  wants. 

Yet  Amelia  did  not  wish  to  appear  inactive,  for  when 
Sarah  came  down  in  a  hurry,  wanting  some  arrow-root, 
though  Amelia  did  not  know  how  to  make  it,  she  said,  "  It's 
a  strange  thing  when  I  am  anxious  to  help,  that  you  do 
not  choose  to  let  me." 

"  Well,"  said  Sarah,  as  she  left  the  room,  "  there  are  the 
letters  to  post.     I  shall  be  glad  if  you  '11  do  that." 

"  Post  the  letters  ! "  said  Amelia,  in  an  injured  tone,  when 
Sarah  was  gone  ;  "  why,  any  servant  can  do  that ;  it  must 
be  evident  to  the  most  prejudiced  person  that  they  don't 
choose  to  let  me  help." 

Just  then  Mary  came  in.  "  Have  you  anything  particular 
to  do  just  now  ?"  asked  Amelia. 

The  maid  said,  "  No,  not  now,  that  Miss  Sarah  had  gone 
up  with  the  arrow-root."  "  Then  post  these  letters,"  said 
Amelia ;  and  she  took  them,  Amelia  saying,  that  willing  as 
she  was  to  help,  she  did  not  choose  to  be  turned  into  an 
errand  girl  to  please  Sarah's  caprice. 

Mary  had  been  gone  a  long  time,  when  I  suddenly  fanci'ed 
that  a  bell,  which  had  been  rung  several  times,  had  not 
been  answered,  and  I  ran  up  to  Miss  Anne's  room  to  ask 
about  it. 

"  No,  my  dear,"  said  Miss  Bobby,  "  I  did  not  ring." 

I  came  down ;  again  the  bell  rang.  I  now  found  it  was 
the  door-bell,  and  answered  it  myself 

There  stood  both  the  servants,  Mary  and  Fanny.  "  Dear 
Miss,"  said  Mary,  "  I  never  gave  it  a  thought  that  Fanny 
was  out,  when  I  said  I  had  nothing  to  do.  I  did  not 
know  it,  I  'm  sure,  and  I  thought  she  would  be  down 
directly." 


The  Cumberers.  43 

"  No,"  said  Fanny,  "  Missis  sent  me  out  for  some  sal- 
volatile,  and  I  went  in  a  hurry." 

They  proceeded  to  the  kitchen^  and  there  was  exclaiming 
and  lifting  up  of  hands  ;  the  fire  was  out. 

"  Deary  me ! "  cried  Mary,  ready  to  cry,  "  and  Miss 
Anne's  pudding  spoilt  in  the  oven  ;  I  know  it  '11  be  as  heavy 
as  lead." 

While  they  were  scratching  out  the  cinders  and  lighting 
the  fire,  I  ran  up  stairs  with  the  sal-volatile.  "  My  dear," 
said  Miss  Perkins,  "would  you  kindly  ask  whether  the 
pudding  is  ready  ?  Anne  fancies  she  could  eat  some."  I 
was  obliged  to  tell  her  that  I  knew  it  was  not  ready ;  and 
when  at  length  it  came  up,  Sarah  said  it  looked  strange, 
and  the  invahd  scarcely  touched  it,  and  evidently  did  not 
relish  it  at  all. 

There  was  another  night  of  sitting  up  and  anxiety,  and 
in  the  morning  Bessie  did  nothing  but  cry  and  sob  all 
breakfast-time,  and  Amelia  looked  grave.  But  when  the 
doctor  came  and  spoke  cheerfully,  though  I  observed  with- 
out giving  any  opinion  as  to  the  termination  of  the  illness, 
Amelia  blamed  Bessie  for  being  so  nervous,  and  said  she 
wondered  at  her  weakness. 

"  You  have  not  been  with  her  as  I  have,"  sobbed  Bessie. 
"  Robina  called  me  up  to  help  her  in  the  night,  and  Anne 
—  Anne  —  talked  nonsense." 

"  Called  you  up  !  O,  that  accounts  for  your  crying ;  you 
are  tired,  that 's  all.  I  have  perfect  confidence  in  Dr.  W. 
Anne  is  only  feverish." 

Notwithstanding  this  philosophical  view  of  the  matter, 
Bessie  continued  to  sob  hysterically,  till  at  last  I  per- 
suaded her  to  go  and  lie  down,  while  I  went  and  sat  on 
the  stairs  to  take  down  messages  for  Miss  Sarah,  Robioa 
being  gone  to  bed. 

I  could  not  be  of  much  use  ;  but  when  I  urged  Sarah  to 
employ  me,  she  said  decidedly,  "  My  dear,  I  would  not  do 


44  Studies  for  Stories. 

you  such  an  unkindness  as  to  let  you  be  useless  and  idle 
if  I  can  help  it ;  we  don't  know,  my  dear,  how  soon  such 
habits  may  grow.  You  may  take  this  prescription  to  the 
chemist's  to  be  made  up." 

So  I  did  that,  and  then  took  up  my  station  again  on  the 
stairs,  and  was  seldom  wanted,  though  Sarah  kindly  said 
she  liked  to  know  that  some  one  was  there  in  case  she 
did  want  anything. 

This  was  indeed  but  a  slight  service,  but  I  have  since 
thought  that  Miss  Sarah  accepted  it  more  for  my  good 
than  for  her  own ;  and  I  have  felt  grateful  for  a  consid- 
eration that  would  not  repulse  the  most  inefficient  assist- 
ance. 


The  Cumberers.  45 


CHAPTER    IV. 

THE     FLOWER-GIRL    LOSES    A     FRIEND. 

MISS  Anne  continued  very  unwell,  and  I  was  told 
that  her  fever  increased.  About  nine  o'clock  Miss 
Perkins  returned  to  the  sick-room,  and  Sarah  went  to  bed. 
She  was  very  tirecf,  and  let  me  help  her  to  undress  ;  then, 
hearing  a  ring  at  the  door-bell,  she  asked  me  to  go  and 
see  if  it  was  Anne's  medicine.  I  ran  down  with  an  almost 
childish  wish  to  be  important  and  useful,  which  no  doubt 
she  saw,  though  I  did  not  suspect  it. 

It  was  not  the  medicine  that  had  arrived,  but  a  note 
from  Mrs.  Blount  to  Amelia,  asking  her  to  join  a  picnic 
party  the  next  day,  and,  as  usual,  to  bring  me  with  her. 

Amelia,  to  do  her  justice,  had  seen  so  little  of  Anne 
during  her  illness,  that  it  was  no  wonder  she  underrated 
its  importance,  and  I  was  too  ignorant  to  undeceive  her. 
Mrs.  Blount  knew  nothing  of  it,  and  the  invitation  had 
thrown  Amelia  into  a  state  of  great  perplexity  ;  she  wished 
to  go,  and  yet  she  did  not  wish  to  be  thought  unfeeling. 
She  therefore  accepted,  but  said  that  if  Anne  were  worse 
the  following  day,  Mrs.  Blount  must  excuse  her. 

I  did  not  know  whether  my  absence  for  the  day  might 
not  be  a  rehef  to  the  sisters,  and  I  went  up  to  Miss  Sarah 
to  ascertain  what  she  really  wished  me  to  do. 

She  seemed  to  understand  that  I  truly  wished  to  do 
what  was  most  agreeable  to  them,  and  after  a  moment's 
thought,  said  that  the  last  party  had  turned  out  so  badly, 
that  she  and  Miss  Perkins  would  be  anxious  about  me,  as 
I  was  delicate  and  under  their  care  ;  for  that  Mrs.  Blount^ 


46  Studies  for  Stories, 

though  kind,  would  not  be  prudent  or  careful  as  regarded 
our  health ;  and  then  she  kindly  added,  that  perhaps  I 
might  be  of  use  to  her,  and  therefore,  on  the  whole,  she 
did  not  hesitate  to  say  that  she  wished  me  to  stay  at  home. 

Bessie  was  kept  up  that  night  to  help  Miss  Perkins, 
and  the  next  morning,  when  Amelia  and  I  met  her  on  the 
stairs,  she  said  she  did  not  think  Anne  was  any  worse. 
Amelia,  however,  thought  she  had  better  not  go  till  she 
had  heard  her  eldest  sister's  report,  and  she  lingered  on 
the  stairs  some  little  time,  but  Miss  Perkins  did  not  come 
out,  and  at  last  she  said,  "  Well,  as  Dr.  W.  had  not  ar- 
rived, and  Bessie  said  Anne  was  certainly  no  worse,  she 
supposed  she  ought  to  go  ;  at  any  rate  she  had  better  go 
up  and  dress."  So  she  did,  and  then  Mrs.  Blount  came  and 
said  how  strange  it  would  be  of  Amelia  to  stay  at  home 
because  one  of  her  sisters  was  a  little  poorly  and  lying  in 
bed ;  were  there  not  three  at  home  to  take  care  of  her  1' 

"  Anne  is  really  ill,"  began  Amelia. 

"  O,  well,  my  dear,  do  as  you  like ;  but  I  thought  from 
your  note,  it  was  most  likely  a  feverish  cold,  and  I  quite 
expected  to  find  her  on  the  sofa  to-day." 

Now,  either  Amelia  must  have  felt  secretly  convinced 
that  Anne  was  much  worse  than  she  had  said,  or  she  had 
better  feelings  than  we  had  given  her  credit  for,  and  felt 
deeply  ashamed  to  leave  her  sisters  to  another  day  of  toil ; 
certainly  she  had  a  severe  struggle  with  herself,  before  she 
could  decide  to  leave  the  better  part  and  go  out  on  a  party 
of  pleasure.  It  was  not  till  Mrs.  Blount  remarked  what  a 
united  family  they  were,  and  how  sweetly  they  sympathized 
with  one  another,  that  Amelia  yielded  herself  to  go  with  a 
friend  whose  society  and  flattery  were  so  delightful  to  her, 
and  who,  I  fully  beheve,  had  no  idea  of  the  extent  of  Anne's 
illness. 

So  Amelia  set  off,  and  I  sat  alone  till  Sarah  came  down, 
and  had  her  breakfast;   Miss  Perkins  joining  her,  and 


The  Cumberers.  47 

telling  me  that  she  should  be  very  glad  if  I  would  order 
the  dinner  for  her,  and  cast  up  the  slate.  I  was  also  to 
pay  one  or  two  bills.  These  little  things  being  new  to  me, 
occupied  my  mind  during  the  greater  part  of  the  morning ; 
and  when  I  had  written  to  my  parents,  I  was  surprised  to 
find  that  it  was  two  o'clock,  the  usual  dinner-hour.  I  heard 
that  Dr.  W.  had  paid  his  visit  almost  directly  after  Amelia 
went  away,  and  as  the  house  was  very  quiet  all  the  morn- 
ing, I  hoped  Anne  was  asleep.  As  I  had  taken  some  pains 
in  ordering  the  dinner,  I  was  a  good  deal  disappointed 
when  a  message  was  sent  to  me,  asking  me  to  sit  down 
alone,  and  the  ladies  would  come  when  they  were  able. 
So  I  dined,  and  then  waited  till  everything  was  cold,  and 
till  Fanny  proposed  that  the  dishes  should  be  taken  to  the 
kitchen-fire  till  the  ladies  came  down. 

I  felt  very  desolate  and  did  not  know  what  to  do  with 
myself.  Bessie  was  gone  to  bed,  and  Miss  Sarah  had  re- 
quested me  not  to  sit  on  the  stairs.  At  last  I  took  up  an 
amusing  book  that  Amelia  had  borrowed,  and  was  deep  in 
the  story,  when  I  heard  a  man's  step  coming  down  stairs, 
and  Dr.  W.  came  in.  I  was  surprised,  and  asked  him  if 
he  had  been  up  to  see  Miss  Anne  again. 

He  answered,  "  Ma'am,  I  have  ;  "  and  then  he  sat  down 
and  looked  at  me  attentively,  till  I  felt  rather  confused, 
more  especially  as  he  suddenly  broke  the  silence  by  saying, 
sententiously,  "  Ha !  bottled  porter  !  " 

"  I  am  afraid  there  is  none  in  the  house,"  said  I,  rising, 
"but  I'll  see." 

"  Pooh  ! "  said  the  doctor,  "  sit  down.  Yes,  bottled  por- 
ter." 

I  then  understood  that  he  intended  to  recommend  this 
beverage  to  me. 

"  What's  the  matter  with  you  ?  "  he  next  said. 

"Nothing,"  I  replied,  "but  that  I  have  been  growing 
very  fast." 


48  Studies  for  Stories. 

"  Ah  !  well ;  have  you  any  friends  here,  ma'am  ? "  said 
the  old  gentleman. 

I  answered  in  the  negative. 

"  Any  acquaintances,  ma'am  ?  " 

"  Only  one,  very  recently  made,  —  Mrs.  Blount." 

"  Mrs,  Blount.  I  know  her  ;  all  right.  Suppose  you  go 
and  spend  a  day  or  two  with  her." 

Seeing  me  look  up  amazed,  he  said,  "  Well,  then,  sup- 
pose you  go  home." 

"  My  parents  are  travelling  in  France." 
• "  What  of  that,  ma'am  ?     They  have  not  taken  the  house 
with  them,  I  suppose  1 " 

I  could  scarcely  help  laughing,  while  I  answered,  No, 
but  that  the  house  was  being  painted. 

"  Painted  !  people  are  always  painting.  Never  was  any- 
thing known  like  the  luxury  of  the  present  day,  —  never. 
Well,  ma'am,  young  people  are  always  in  the  way  at  these 
times,  and  never  of  any  use." 

I  was  so  surprised  and  perplexed  at  this  speech,  that  I 
did  not  know  what  to  answer. 

"Well,  ma'am,"  he  continued,  after  waiting  for  me  to 
speak,  "  I'm  sorry  you  don't  see  the  thing  in  the  light  I 
could  have  wished,  and  here's  my  carriage  quite  at  your 
service  to  take  you  to  Mrs.  Blount.  You  would  really  be 
better  away,  for  I  shall  be  surprised  if  that  poor  thing  lives 
through  the  night." 

My  astonishment  and  terror  at  hearing  these  words  took 
away  my  breath,  a  film  rose  before  my  eyes,  and  I  do  not 
know  what  I  should  have  done  if  the  old  gentleman  had 
not  suddenly  exclaimed,  "  Heyday,  ma'am,  what 's  the 
meaning  of  this  .''  We  can't  have  any  fainting ;  come  and 
sit  by  the  window,  directly." 

He  gave  me  his  hand,  and  threw  up  the  sash,  and 
though  confusion  and  sorrow  kept  me  silent,  I  felt  no 
more  faintness :    Amelia's  absence,  the  necessity  of  my 


The  Cumberers.  49 

immediately  leaving  my  hostess,  the  uncertainty  where  1 
ought  to  go,  and  pity  for  the  poor  invalid,  crowded  on  my 
mind,  till  when  the  old  gentleman  had  given  me  long 
enough,  as  he  thought,  for  consideration,  he  said,  "  Well, 
ma'am,  here's  my  carriage.  In  my  opinion,  a  carpet-bag 
would  take  all  you  require,  but  ladies  "  —  spreading  out  his 
arms,  as  if  to  enclose  a  whole  army  of  boxes  —  "  have  such 
notions  of  the  luggage  they  must  take  about  with  them, 
for  their  hats  and  their  flounces,  and  their  pomatums,  and 
their  things,  that  I  'm  sure  I  don't  know  whether  you  can 
find  room  enough  —  but  there 's  the  rumble  !  " 

I  replied  that  a  carpet-bag  would  content  me,  and  I 
stole  up  the  back-stairs,  taking  Fanny  with  me,  who  was 
weeping,  for  she  had  been  informed  of  Miss  Anne's 
danger. 

I  was  anxious  not  to  keep  Dr.  W.  waiting,  for  I  thought 
myself  very  much  obliged  to  him  for  the  considerate  way 
in  which  he  was  treating  me.  There  was  no  one  I  could 
go  to  but  Mrs.  Blount ;  but  it  would  have  been  much 
more  awkward  to  go  of  my  own  accord  than  to  be  taken 
by  him. 

He  was  pleased  at  my  prompt  return,  and  as  he  handed 
me  into'  his  carriage  with  elaborate  care,  I  saw  the  open- 
mouthed  astonishment  of  his  footman  ;  and  though  I  was 
in  tears,  I  could  not  but  speculate  as  to  whether  any  female 
foot  had  ever  stepped  into  it  before. 

As  we  went,  I  told  him  that  Mrs.  Blount  had  gone  out 
for  the  day,  and  that  Ameha  was  with  her ;  I  then  ven- 
tured, with  a  beating  heart,  to  ask  whether  he  thought 
Miss  Anne's  illness  was  owing  to  her  having  sat  too  much 
indoors  lately. 

She  had  long  been  in  a  very  critical  state,  he  replied, 
and,  perhaps,  if  she  had  been  a  fine  lady,  might  have  led  a 
life  of  less  pain,  though  no  circumstance  could  have  pro- 
longed it. 

3  D 


50  Studies  for  Stories. 

It  was  something,  then,  to  think  that  a  useful  Ufa  had 
not  been  shortened  by  the  wilfulness  and  inefficiency  of 
some  so  much  inferior  to  her ;  but  oh,  how  bitterly  did  I 
regret  that  the  last  week  of  her  life,  before  this  short  ill- 
ness, had  been  clouded  with  anxiety,  hurry,  and  toil,  in- 
stead of  being  peacefully  spent  in  those  quiet  pursuits  that 
she  took  so  much  delight  in. 

But  I  had  no  time  to  indulge  in  these  reflections  and 
the  tears  they  gave  rise  to  ;  we  were  at  Mrs.  Blount's  door, 
and  the  doctor  had  to  explain  to  the  surprised  footman 
that  he  wanted  to  see  Mrs.  Blount's  maid.  That  elegantly 
dressed  personage  presently  made  her  appearance,  and, 
evidently  in  a  fright,  asked  if  any  accident  had  happened 
to  her  lady. 

"  No,  ma'am,"  replied  the  old  gentleman,  addressing  her, 
and  bowing  to  her  exactly  as  he  had  done  to  me,  "  but  a 
patient  of  mine  in  the  house  where  this  young  lady  was 
staying,  or  lodging,  or  something  of  that  sort,  is  dying,  and 
you  '11  be  so  good  as  to  take  care  of  this  young  lady  (I 
have  n't  the  pleasure  of  knowing  her  name)  till  your  lady 
comes  home,  when  the  matter  will  be  explained  to  her." 

The  maid,  charmed  at  his  ceremonious  manner,  made  a 
gratified  courtesy,  and  replied  that  she  would  take  care  of 
the  young  lady. 

The  old  gentleman,  then,  walking  round  me  and  inspect- 
ing me,  as  if  to  see  that  I  was  dehvered  over  to  the  keep- 
ing of  another  in  a  satisfactory  state,  said  slowly,  "  All 
right ! "  and  taking  me  in  one  hand  and  my  carpet-bag  in 
the  other,  led  me  up  to  the  maid,  and,  bowing,  left  me,  with 
a  look  which  plainly  said  to  her,  "  You  have  received  these 
valuable  and  perishable  articles  in  good  preservation,  and 
you  will  be  expected  to  give  them'  up,  on  demand,  in  the 
same  state." 

He  then  hobbled  down  the  steps  to  his  carriage,  and  the 
maid  asked  me  if  I  would  come  up  stairs  to  her  lady's 


The  Ciimberers,  51 

dressing-room  and  have  some  tea.  I  could  not  but  observe 
that  the  old  gentleman's  ultra  care  had  impressed  her 
greatly  with  the  idea  of  the  responsibihty  she  had  under- 
taken, for  she  seemed  to  regard  me  in  the  hght  of  a  thing 
that  was  sure  to  come  to  some  harm,  or  receive  some  in- 
jury, if  it  could  possibly  find  an  opportunity. 

When  I  had  taken  some  tea,  I  lay  on  a  sofa,  feeling 
very  unhappy,  wondering  whether  Anne  was  sensible,  and 
whether  her  sisters  were  apprised  of  her  danger. 

At  length,  when  it  was  quite  dusk,  I  heard  the  sound  of 
carriage-wheels  crushing  the  gravel  before  the  house,  and 
when  they  stopped,  AmeHa's  voice,  in  its  merriest  tones, 
talking  to  little  Miss  Blount. 

I  heard  Mrs.  Blount  ask  Amelia  to  come  in,  and,  dread- 
ing that  they  would  both  come  up  to  the  room  where  I  was, 
and  Amelia  find  out  the  truth  too  suddenly,  I  sent  down 
the  maid  to  draw  Amelia  aside  on  some  pretence,  that  I 
might  first  speak  to  her  friend. 

Mrs.  Blount  came  in,  started  at  the  sight  of  me,  but  I 
was  so  agitated  that  I  could  not  speak.  She  soon  con- 
trived to  calm  me,  and  draw  from  me  all  that  it  was  need- 
ful for  her  to  know. 

"  Let  her  come  here  at  once,"  she  exclaimed  ;  "  the  mere 
sight  of  you  will  be  a  preparation." 

AmeUa  came  in  almost  on  the  instant ;  in  fact,  the  maid 
had  not  been  able  to  detain  her  long  on  pretence  of  brush- 
ing her  dress.  She  was  in  very  high  spirits,  and  so  far 
from  taking  alarm  at  the  sight  of  me,  thought  I  was  come 
to  see  her  home.  She  supposed  I  was  quite  tired  of  being 
moped  in  that  dull  house,  and  appealed  to  Mrs.  Blount 
whether  it  was  not  rather  a  pity  that  her  sisters  should  turn 
the  house  upside  down  for  every  little  illness. 

Mrs.  Blount  said  not  a  word  ;  she  evidently  shrank  from 
the  task  she  had  to  do  ;  and  I  ventured,  by  way  of  opening, 
to  say,  "  I  fear,  Amelia,  we  can  hardly  call  this  a  Httle  ill- 


52  Studies  for  Stories. 

ness,  for  you  know  Miss  Anne  has  had  two  of  your  sisters 
to  sit  up  with  her  for  three  nights  past." 

Mrs.  Blount,  thrown  off  her  guard,  exclaimed,  "Is  it 
possible  ? "  and  I  instantly  felt,  that  by  thus  betraying 
Amelia's  neglect  to  her  friend,  I  had  given  her  great  pain, 
which  I  would  not  have  done  for  the  world  at  such  a  time. 
I  had  only  intended  to  bring  her  mind  to  dwell  on  her  sis- 
ter's illness. 

She  looked  astonished  at  my  speech,  and  deeply  annoyed, 
then  walked  up  to  the  window,  where  I  was  standing,  and 
began  to  draw  up  the  blind,  at  the  same  time  whispering  a 
few  words  to  me  which  showed  high  irritation. 

I  was  so  shocked  at  the  mistake  I  had  made,  that  full 
of  pity  for  her,  I  burst  into  tears,  and  at  the  same  moment 
Mrs.  Blount,  taking  her  hand,  said  gravely,  "My  dear 
Ameha."  This  action,  and  the  sight  of  our  faces,  on  which 
she  had  thrown  light  (the  room  being  previously  dusk), 
instantly  opened  her  mind,  and  she  cried  out  that  she  was 
sure  Anne  was  dying.  We  did  not  contradict  her,  but  led 
her  down  to  the  carriage,  and  Mrs.  Blount  went  with  her 
to  rejoin  her  afflicted  family. 

She  was  away  more  than  an  hour,  and  when  she  re- 
turned, told  me  that  Amelia  went  into  hysterics  directly 
she  entered  the  house.  "I  was  sorry,"  she  continued, 
"  that  she  could  not  command  herself,  for  the  sisters  ran 
down  instantly,  and  entreated  her  to  be  calm,  and  not  to 
let  Anne  hear  the  noise,  for  her  life  hung  on  a  thread,  and 
the  first  shock  would  kill  her.  It  made  a  great  confusion," 
said  Mrs.  Blount,  "  and  I  felt  very  sorry  that  I  had  been 
the  cause  of  Amelia's  being  from  home  at  such  a  time  ;  but 
I  assured  her  sisters  I  had  not  the  slightest  idea  there  was 
anything  more  the  matter  than  a  feverish  cold,  or  I  should 
never  have  thought  of  taking  her  away,  even  if  she  had 
wished  it.  They  presently  went  up  stairs  again.  Poor 
things  !  how  sad  and  worn-out  they  looked.     I  sat  with 


The  Cumberers.  53 

Amelia  as  she  lay  on  the  sofa,  and  she  showed  a  degree  of 
shrinking  from  seeing  her  sister  that  surprised  me  very 
much.  I  should  have  thought  affection  would  have  over- 
powered any  weak  terrors  at  being  present  during  painful 
scenes.  She  then  said  she  had  told  the  youngest  of  the 
sisters  that  I  had  come  under  her  care  ;  and  altogether  the 
sight  of  sorrow  I  found  had  brought  out  all  the  real  kind- 
ness of  her  nature,  and  made  her  receive  me,  an  almost 
stranger,  with  such  a  welcoming  hospitality,  that  I  felt 
quite  comfortable  and  easy  with  her,  and  could  even  tell 
her  how  miserable  I  had  felt  under  the  idea  of  being  palmed 
off  upon  her  in  such  a  way  as  almost  to  oblige  her  to  re- 
ceive me. 

She  laughed,  and  said,  "  My  dear,  you  don't  understand 
my  nature.  I  love  all  young  things,  and  like  to  have  them 
depending  on  me,  and,  in  fact,  I  do  want  something  to  do ; 
something  to  occupy  me.  If  I  had  had  a  large  family,  I 
should  have  been  a  different  creature." 

I  could  not  but  feel  surprised,  and  wondered  that  this 
elegant  and  high-born  woman  should  talk  thus  to  a  girl 
like  mCi  Perhaps  she  perceived  this,  but  instead  of  check- 
ing herself,  she  explained  her  meaning  further,  telhng  me 
that  her  one  child  was  her  late  husband's  heiress,  and  that 
he  had  left  so  many  directions,  so  many  guardians,  trustees, 
etc.,  that  she  found  herself  left  with  very  little  power  over 
her  child.  "And  then,  between  the  governess  and  the 
nurse,"  she  added,  in  a  plaintive  tone,  "  there  never  seems 
to  be  anything  for  me  to  do  for  my  darling  but  to  play  with 
her."  I  thought  I  would  send  away  the  governess  if  I 
were  in  the  mother's  place,  but  of  course  I  did  not  say  so, 
but  went  to  bed  very  much  relieved  to  find  that  Mrs.  Blount 
was  dehghted  to  have  me  under  her  patronage,  and  very 
much  pleased  with  Dr.  W.  for  having  placed  me  there. 

After  breakfast  the  next  morning  we  went  to  inquire  for 
Miss  Anne.     The  shutters  were  not  closed,  and  a  servant 


54  Studies  for  Stories. 

told  us  that  she  still  lived,  that  Dr.  W.  had  seen  her  again, 
and  had  expressed  surprise  that  she  had  lasted  so  long. 

It  was  affecting  to  see  the  orphan  girl  whom  Anne  had 
befriended  sitting  crying  on  the  steps,  and  bemoaning  her 
benefactress.  "  I  ha'n't  time  to  see  after  flowers,"  said 
Mary,  who  looked  pale  and  tired  ;  "  it 's  not  to  be  ex- 
pected." 

"  No,"  said  Mrs.  Blount,  "  but  as  the  garden  is  at  the 
back  of  the  house,  and  not  overlooked  from  the  sick-room, 
I  think  there  would  be  no  harm  in  our  passing  through  the 
kitchen  and  gathering  these  violets." 

The  servant  assented  respectfully,  and  I  could  not  but 
admire  the  kindness  of  Mrs.  Blount ;  she  could  easily  have 
given  the  orphan  girl  the  shilling  for  which  she  would  have 
sold  these  violets,  but  by  this  better  plan  she  provided  that 
the  dying  woman's  charity  should  extend  to  the  last  hour 
of  her  life. 

We  found  the  leaves  of  these  plants  already  drooping, 
and  the  violets  hanging  their  heads,  for  they  require  much 
care  and  regular  watering ;  but  we  gathered  all,  and  made 
them  up  under  the  trees  ;  we  then  came  softly  back  to  the 
house,  and  we  were  met  by  Fanny,  who  said  Miss  Amelia 
would  like  to  see  us.  We  found  her  languid  and  miser- 
able, her  face  disfigured  by  crying.  "  They  have  promised 
to  call  me  if  there  is  the  slightest  change,"  she  said  ;  "  and 
my  feelings  are  so  acute,  that  I  cannot  stand  by  and  see 
her  suffer  as  they  can.  I  am  sure  she  suffers  greatly.  One 
of  them  is  always  fanning  her,  and  another  holding  up  her 
head." 

I  am  sure  Amelia  was  not  at  all  aware  that  there  was 
any  selfishness  in  this  speech ;  and  when  Mrs.  Blount  said 
gently,  "  Don't  you  think,  dear,  you  could  fan  your  sister 
for  a  while,  it  may  be  a  pleasure  to  you  afterwards  to  think 
you  have  done  something  for  her  ? "  she  said,  "  You  don't 
know  what  it  is  ;  she  —  she  —  gasps  so,  poor  thing,  —  that 


The  Ctimberers.  55 

it  perfectly  overcomes  me  " ;  and  then  she  covered  her  face 
with  her  hands,  and  began  to  weep  afresh. 

Mrs.  Blount  did  not  say  a  word  ;  and  I  inquired  how  her 
sisters  were.  "  They  look  ready  to  drop,  ma'am,"  said 
Fanny,  who  just  then  came  in  with  a  note  of  inquiry,  "  but 
they  won't  leave  the  room ;  they  've  eaten  nothing  since 
last  night  at  supper-time,  and  then  Mary  and  I  carried 
them  up  some  sandwiches,  and  begged  of  them  to  eat 
them,  and  they  came  out  one  by  one,  and  ate  them  on  the 
stairs." 

"  Surely  such  great  exertion  and  fatigue  cannot  be  need- 
ful," said  Mrs.  Blount,  quite  shocked. 

"  Poor  ladies,  they  '11  soon  have  rest,"  whispered  Fanny, 
"  and  poor  Miss  Anne  needs  a  wonderful  deal  of  waiting 
on." 

Hearing  a  step  on  the  stairs,  we  then  hastily  withdrew, 
and  as  we  went  home  no  comment  whatever  was  made  by 
either,  on  the  things  we  had  witnessed ;  but  Mrs.  Blount 
induced  me  to  tell  her  all  I  knew  of  Miss  Anne's  charities, 
and  said  that  when  she  was  gone  the  poor  orphan  should 
not  want  a  friend. 

In  the  afternoon  we  again  went  to  look  at  the  house. 
The  sun  was  shining  full  upon  it,  but  not  within  it,  for 
the  shutters  were  closed. 


$6  Studies  for  Stories. 


CHAPTER    V. 

THE    STRANGE    CLERGYMAN'S     SERMON. 

NOW  as  this  is  the  history  of  a  Cumberer,  I  shall  not 
stay  to  dilate  on  the  kindness  shown  to  me  by  Mrs. 
Blount,  the  events  that  took  place,  or  the  cogitation  I  in- 
dulged in,  excepting  when  they  had  reference  to  my  heroine ; 
I  pass  on  therefore  to  say  that  the  day  after  Miss  Anne's 
funeral,  at  which  more  mourners  attended  than  those  of 
her  own  family,  Miss  Perkins  sent  a  message  to  Mrs. 
Blount,  requesting  her  to  come  and  see  her. 

She  complied  immediately,  and  on  her  return  I  felt  nat- 
urally anxious  to  know  what  had  been  decided  about  me. 

Mrs.  Blount  did  not  at  first  satisfy  me,  but  sitting  on  an 
ottoman  before  the  window,  continued  to  look  out  at  the 
ships  passing  through  the  stripes  of  sunny  and  shady, 
water,  for  the  sky  was  streaked  with  clouds.  I  saw  that 
she  was  vexed,  and  felt  relieved  when  she  at  last  ex- 
claimed, "  Well,  my  dear,  Miss  Perkins  wishes  you  to  re- 
turn this  day  week." 

"  So  soon  ?  "  I  rephed  ;  "  surely  I  shall  be  in  their  way ; 
may  I  not  now  go  home  ?  —  the  house  must  be  ready." 

"  My  dear,  your  parents  are  not  here  to  be  consulted, 
and  as  far  as  I  am  concerned,  I  should  not  like  to  return 
you  to  any  hands  but  those  from  which  I  received  you  ; 
besides,  the  agreement  for  you  was  made  for  three  months  ; 
and  when  you  hear  that  your  going  back  is  of  some  con- 
sequence to  Miss  Perkins,  I  believe  you  will  be  ready  to 
do  so." 

"  Of  consequence,"  I  exclaimed  ;  "  dear  Mrs.  Blount,  of 
what  use  can  I  be  to  them  ? " 


The  Qimberers.  57 

"  I  have  discovered,"  she  replied,  "  that  the  sum  paid  for 
you  will  be  of  great  consequence  —  that  good,  good  woman 
(I  wish  I  were  as  good,  she  has  no  pride  about  her,  not  an 
atom,  and  no  affectation)  —  told  me  she  looked  on  it  as  a 
providence  that  you  should  have  been  placed  with  them, 
for  thus  they  could  cover  the  expenses  of  their  dear  sister's 
illness  and  funeral." 

"  Are  they  so  poor  ?  "  I  answered. 

"  I  had  no  idea  of  it,"  she  replied  ;  "  in  fact  I  have  been 
deceived  and  led  into  a  great  many  mistakes.  It  seems 
that,  now  this  poor  lady  is  dead,  one  third  of  the  property 
they  lived  upon  is  withdrawn,  and  four  people  have  to  live 
on  one  third  less  than  five  did." 

I  remembered  what  Bessie  had  told  me,  and  answered 
that  I  knew  it  was  so. 

"  Then  why  did  n't  you  tell  me  ?  "  she  answered  suddenly 
and  almost  sharply,  but  instantly  she  seemed  to  remember 
that  it  was  not  my  business  to  tell  her  things  that  had 
come  to  my  knowledge  in  another  person's  house,  for  she 
added  more  softly,  "  I  have  been  completely  and  intention- 
ally deceived,  and  no  one  has  tried  to  set  me  right ;  Ame- 
lia made  me  believe  that  there  was  plenty  of  property  in 
their  family,  but  that  her  sisters  had  a  natural  hking  for 
living  in  that  pokey  way,  and  for  having  no  footman." 

Poor  Amelia,  she  has  lost  her  friend,  and  if  she  finds 
that  out,  it  will  be  punishment  enough,  I  thought,  but  I 
did  not  say  anything. 

Mrs.  Blount  presently  went  on,  "Of  course  the  elder 
sister  must  naturally  feel  this  death  far  more  than  the 
younger;  yet  that  kind  woman.  Miss  Sarah,  sat  at  her 
work  with  a  sort  of  patient  sadness  about  her  that  inter- 
ested me  very  much,  while  Amelia  was  idling  away  her 
time  in  the  drawing-room,  looking  more  discontented  than 
sorrowful ;  and  being  alone  with  her  for  a  few  minutes,  she 
told  me  what  a  misfortune  it  was  this  property  being  with- 
3* 


58  Studies  for  Stories. 

drawn,  for  now  her  sisters  would  be  more  penurious  than 
ever.  When  Miss  Perkins  told  me  afterwards  what  they 
all  had  to  live  on,  I  was  quite  amazed  ;  I  squander  almost 
as  much  on  dress  and  gewgaws  as  they  maintain  their 
respectable  appearance  on." 

Then  looking  up  and  seeing  me  look  grave,  she  smiled 
and  said,  "  What  are  you  thinking  of,  Mentoria  ?  "  for  she 
always  called  me  by  this  name  ;  perhaps  because  it  amused 
her  as  being  remarkably  inappropriate. 

I  replied  that  I  was  thinking  of  what  she  had  said,  that 
she  had  been  deceived,  and  no  one  had  tried  to  set  her 
right. 

She  laughed  (for  she  was  never  grave  for  many  minutes 
together),  and  said,  "  You  are  too  tall  to  be  petted,  Mento- 
ria, or  I  might  do  without  Amelia,  and  take  you  ;  sit  down 
by  me  and  give  me  a  kiss.  Now,  tell  me  whether  I  have 
done  my  duty  by  you  ;  have  you  been  happy  with  me  ?  " 

"  Very  happy  indeed." 

"I  really  think  you  have.  Well,  you  like  me,  and  I 
think  you  cannot  like  Amelia.  Why  then  did  you  let  her 
deceive  me  ? " 

"  I  thought  it  would  be  very  wrong  in  me  to  deprive  her 
of  a  friend,  and  besides,  you  might  not  have  believed  me." 

"  Just  answer  me*  one  question,  it  can  do  her  no  harm ; 
are  they  aware  at  home  of  her  real  character  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  cannot  but  be  sure  that  they  are." 

"Well,  Mentoria,  I  would  have  been  her  friend,  for  I 
really  liked  her  ;  but  now  I  have  seen  her  as  she  is.  Keep 
my  secret ;  do  not  tell  her  that  I  have  ceased  to  care  for 
her,  and  to  respect  her.  I  wish  she  may  ever  be  worthy 
of  those  excellent  women,  whom  she  aifects  almost  to 
despise." 

So  ended  this  conversation.  At  the  appointed  day  I 
returned  to  my  hostesses,  who  received  me  very  kindly 
and  calmly. 


The  Cumberers.  59 

I  saw  that  Miss  Anne  was  a  great  loss  to  her  affection- 
ate sisters,  and  tried  to  prevent  their  feehng  my  presence 
an  intrusion,  keeping  as  much  apart  as  possible,  and  still 
walking  out  with  Mrs.  Blount,  who  kindly  came  for  me 
daily. 

After  the  first  day  Amelia  accompanied  us,  and  seemed 
to  be  trying  hard  to  regain  her  ascendancy  over  her  friend 
by  that  gentle  flattery  and  attention  to  all  she  said  which 
had  won  it  for  her  at  first.  She  perceived  that  something 
was  amiss,  though  far  from  attributing  the  change  to  its 
right  cause ;  she  thought  her  friend  capricious,  and  fan- 
cied she  could  not  please  her  because  she  was  interested 
in  me. 

Amelia  lived  for  herself,  therefore  it  was  not  strange 
that  she  was  neither  useful  nor  happy.  I  did  not  think 
that  when  at  home  she  seemed  much  to  feel  the  death  of 
her  sister,  yet  when  walking  with  Mrs.  Blount  she  spoke 
affectingly  of  the  sorrow  she  suffered  ;  and  I  am  not  at  all 
sure  that  she  was  wilfully  deceitful,  for  it  is  really  easier  to 
deceive  one's  self  than  other  people. 

Bessie  took  charge  of  the  garden,  and  went  out  daily 
just  as  her  sister  had  done,  and  again  the  violet  bed 
bloomed  as  before,  and  the  orphan  girl  sat  on  the  steps 
waiting  for  the  flowers. 

I  felt  sure  that  this  constant  following  of  her  late  sister's 
footsteps  was  a  trial  to  her  feelings,  yet  when  I  sat  down 
by  her  and  said,  "  Dear  Bessie,  I  am  sure  this  is  too  much 
for  you,"  she  answered  hurriedly,  "  I  shall  soon  be  cheer- 
ful in  the  garden,  my  dear,  and  mind  you  do  not  let  Bobby 
think  I  do  too  much,  it  would  make  her  uneasy." 

I  replied,  "  I  should  not  think  of  such  a  thing ;  but  I 
am  coming  out  soon  to  help." 

"  You  will  be  horridly  tanned  if  you  do,"  said  Amelia ; 
"  the  sun  tans  more  than  the  sea.  /  was  obliged  to  come 
in  yesterday  when  I  went  out  to  help  in  the  garden ;  by 


6o  Stttdies  for  Stories. 

tea-time  I  should  have  been  burnt  quite  red."  Amelia  had 
just  come  in  from  a  walk. 

"  It  is  no  worse  for  us  than  for  Bessie,"  I  could  not  help 
saying. 

"  You  are  quite  mistaken,"  replied  Amelia  ;  "  fair  skins 
like  yours  and  mine  tan  directly,  but  nothing  hurts  that 
kind  of  thick  complexion  that  Bessie  has." 

"  But  in  spite  of  being  tanned,"  she  proceeded,  "  I  should 
certainly  have  thought  it  right  to  help  in  the  garden,  if 
Bessie  had  not  particularly  given  out  that  she  intended  to 
undertake  it  herself;  and  as  it  was  not  too  much  for  dear 
Anne,  delicate  as  she  was,  I  suppose  Bessie  can  easily 
do  it." 

"  I  undertook  the  garden,"  said  Bessie,  "  because  Sarah 
was  unhappy  about  it,  and  said  it  would  make  her  miser- 
able to  see  it  get  into  disorder,  when  our  dear  sister  had 
been  so  fond  of  it." 

"  Well,"  said  Amelia,  "  but  you  undertook  it  of  your  own 
accord,  quite  vehemently,  and  declared  that  you  should 
feel  it  a  pleasure.  If  you  are  tired  of  it  you  had  better 
say  so." 

"  I  am  not  tired  of  it,"  said  Bessie. 

"  Then  I  am  sure  I  don't  know  what  the  discussion  is 
about,"  rejoined  Ameha,  "  nor  why  you  put  on  that  injured 
air.  Since  Miss  T.  came  here,  she  is  always  putting  it  into 
your  head  that  you  are  a  martyr.  You  did  not  consult  me 
when  you  chose  to  undertake  the  garden ;  what  fault  of 
mine  is  it  then  that  you-  are  tired  and  tanned  1  At  this 
moment,  happily  for  us  all,  there  was  a  knock  at  the  door, 
and  we  withdrew  to  our  rooms  before  it  was  answered. 
Perhaps  on  reflection  Amelia  felt  that  she  had  not  behaved 
amiably  to  her  sister,  for  as  soon  as  the  sun  was  low,  we 
saw  her  go  into  the  garden  and  begin  very  diligently  to 
weed  a  little  flower-bed.  She  seemed  so  much  in  earnest 
that  I  saw  Robina  looking  at  her  with  pleasure,  and  Sarah 


The  Cuntberers.  6 1 

declared  that  it  looked  as  if  Amelia  meant  to  turn  over  a 
new  leaf. 

Just  as  the  bed  was  weeded,  and  all  the  stones,  weeds, 
and  rubbish  were  raked  on  to  the  walk,  Fanny  came  to  call 
her  in  to  tea,  and  she  entered,  remarking  that  she  should 
go  out  again  when  the  meal  was  over,  to  finish  her  work. 
But  a  book  was  brought  in  from  the  club,  and  Amelia 
opened  it,  was  interested,  and  read  on  till  it  was  too  late 
for  any  more  gardening.  The  next  day  was  hot,  and  the 
day  after  that  was  damp,  so  the  weeds  were  left  till  Bessie, 
who  gardened  in  spite  of  heat  and  damp,  raked  them  away ; 
and  there,  as  far  as  I  know,  ended  Amelia's  weeding. 

The  day  after  these  weeds  were  raked  away  was  Sunday. 
A  strange  clergyman  preached,  and  his  sermon  was  so 
striking,  that  I  remember  parts  of  it  to  this  time.  This 
sermon  was  from  the  parable  of- the  barren  fig-tree,  and 
the  text  was,  "  Cut  it  down,  why  cumbereth  it  the  ground  ? " 

We  Hstened  to  it  with  unusual  seriousness,  and  talked 
of  it  a  good  deal  during  the  rest  of  the  day,  but  no  one  re- 
membered or  discussed  it  so  much  as  Amelia.  She  re- 
marked that  she  had  felt  particularly  edified  by  it,  and  that 
she  sincerely  hoped  it  would  be  a  warning  to  her  if  ever 
she  should  be  in  danger  of  becoming  a  Cumberer. 

The  next  morning  Mrs.  Blount  walked  out  with  Miss 
Sarah,  Amelia,  and  myself,  and,  seated  under  the  shadow 
of  a  great  cliff,  we  reverted  to  the  sermon. 

"  It  was  very  striking,"  said  Mrs.  Blount ;  "but  the  con- 
cluding remarks  gave  me  a  thrill  that  I  have  hardly  recov- 
ered to  this  hour." 

The  preacher  in  concluding  had  said,  "  But  why  do  I  so 
earnestly  entreat  you  to  consider  the  sin  and  peril  of  thus 
cumbering  the  Lord's  •  vineyard  ?  Alas!  though  there 
should  be  but  five  persons  present  who  are  guilty  of  this 
sin,  and  it  should  be  known  to  me  that  they  alone  stood  in 
need  of  applying  these  words  to  themselves,  I  should  feel 


62  Studies  for  Stories. 

that  though  all  the  rest  of  my  hearers  might  seriously  ex- 
amine themselves  as  to  their  state,  and  consider  whether 
the  lot  of  the  cumberer  might  not  be  theirs,  yet  those  five, 
those  fruitless  five,  easy  and  unconscious,  would  pass  the 
warning  by,  and  be  the  last  to  think  it  needed." 

When  these  words  were  referred  to  I  repeated  them, 
adding  a  striking  remark,  to  the  effect  that  though  the  tree 
is  represented  as  blamable  for  being  fruitless,  yet  being 
covered  with  the  leaves  of  a  fair  profession,  it  might  be 
thought  that  those  leaves  covered  and  hid  even  from  itself 
the  barrenness  of  the  boughs  ;  it  is  only  the  husbandman 
who  acknowledges  and  bewails  its  state,  and  tenderly  en- 
treats for  it  a  patience  that  it  does  not  think  it  needs. 
Nothing  but  the  grace  of  God,  the  preacher  had  said,  can 
open  the  eyes  of  those  that  cumber  the  ground. 

"  There,"  said  Mrs.  Blount,  "  that  will  do,  my  dear ;  I 
should  not  like  to  have  a  memory  like  yours ;  if  I  could 
recall  great  pieces  of  that  sermon  at  will,  I  should  never 
have  any  peace." 

"  Still  it  is  a  blessing  to  have  a  good  memory,"  observed 
Miss  Sarah  ;  "  and  I  hope  you  will  never  try  to  forget  things 
because  they  make  you  uncomfortable." 

I  answered  somewhat  childishly,  for  it  made  all  my  hear- 
ers laugh,  that  I  was  sure  I  should  never  forget  that  ser- 
mon, for  that  the  clergyman  had  looked  at  me  several  times 
so  pointedly  that  I  could  not  but  think  he  considered  me 
likely  to  be  a  cumberer ;  and  that  I  had  been  afraid  ever 
since  that  I  must  be  one  of  those  five. 

Amelia  laughed  with  the  others,  and  said  quite  good- 
humoredly,  "  You  felt  rather  guilty,  perhaps,  and  that  was 
why  you  fancied  he  looked  at  you." 

Sarah  answered  very  kindly,  "  Well,  my  dear,  fears  about 
ourselves  are  never  out  of  place ;  as  for  me,  I  must  own 
that  I  felt  much  humbled,  for  what  fruit  is  there  in  my 
life  ?  —  what  return  have  I  ever  made  to  the  labors  of  that 


The  Ctimberers.  63 

gracious  Husbandman,  as  an  evidence  of  my  gratitude  for 
his  care  ? " 

To  my  confusion  Mrs.  Blount  then  said  to  Amelia,  "  It 
seems  we  all  applied  it  to  ourselves.  What  did  you  think 
of  it,  Amelia  ?  we  shall  be  glad  of  your  confession  to  add 
to  our  own." 

I  wondered  to  hear  her  speak  lightly,  yet  I  observed  that 
she  felt  considerable  curiosity  as  to  what  would  be  the  an- 
swer ;  but  nothing  could  exceed  AmeHa's  unconsciousness, 
for  when  I  ventured  to  glance  at  her,  I  saw  that  she  was 
quietly  playing  with  the  soft,  dry  sand,  and  passing  her 
white  fingers  through  it  in  search  of  shells. 

"  Why,"  she  said,  "  there  seems  to  me  a  kind  of  absurdity 
and  false  humility  in  applying  things  to  one's  self  that  really 
are  not  applicable.  If  the  man  had  said,  '  My  brethren,  I 
hope  those  of  you  are  penitent  who  have  committed  theft, 
and  those  who  have  committed  murder,'  I  should  not  have 
felt  that  perhaps  I  had  committed  theft  or  murder,  because 
I  know  I  have  not.  Well,  it's  just  the  same  in  this  case  ; 
I  am  wilhng  enough  to  acknowledge  faults  that  I  commit, 
but  not  to  be  morbid  and  to  distress  myself  about  faults  that 
I  do  not  commit.  In  fact,  you  know  a  member  of  a  large 
family  has  no  power  to  be  useless,  even  if  she  ^vishes  it." 

"  Very  true,"  said  Mrs.  Blount ;  "  but  certainly  some  of 
us  are  more  useful  than  others." 

"  No  doubt,"  replied  Amelia  complacently. 

"  Then  do  you  think  it  was  morbid  in  us  to  apply  it  to 
ourselves  ? " 

"  I  cannot  pretend  to  say,"  replied  Amelia  after  a  pause  ; 
"  I  should  not  have  thought  it  necessary." 

Here  I  was  so  afraid  lest  Miss  Sarah  should  find  out 
what  Mrs.  Blount  was  about  in  thus  drawing  out  Amelia, 
that  I  pinched  her  hand,  and  entreated  her  with  my  eyes 
to  desist ;  but  she  only  laughed  and  said,  "  I  thought  yes- 
terday that  in  one  particular  that  clergyman  was  wrong, 


64  Studies  for  Stories. 

but  now.  I  have  come  to  the  conclusion  that  he  was  right 
in  aU." 

"  What  was  that  one  point  ?  "  asked  AmeHa. 

"  Mentoria  knows,"  she  answered. 

"  I  cannot  think  why  you  call  her  Mentoria,"  exclaimed 
Amelia ;  "  but  I  have  noticed  that  she  has  looked  rather 
guilty  for  some  time,  blushing  up  to  the  eyes,  I  declare. 
What  fearful  act  of  inefficiency,  or  what  remarkable  proof 
of  your  uselessness,  did  you  give  Mrs.  Blount  during  your 
stay  with  her.  Miss  T.,  that  you  look  so  shamefaced  ? " 

"  How  do  you  know  that  she  is  blushing  for  herself  ? " 
asked  Mrs.  Blount  suddenly ;  '■'■perhaps  it  is  for  me  I " 

I  do  not  justify  this  remark,  but  only  record  it.  It  seemed 
to  interest  Amelia,  for  she  said,  with  that  peculiar  gentle- 
ness of  manner  which  she  often  assumed  with  Mrs.  Blount, 
"  I  suppose  some  persons  would  think  me  jealous,  and  I 
cannot  altogether  conceal  that  I  have  that  proof  of  affec- 
tion in  my  feelings  towards  you  ;  for  I  do  feel  a  little  pain 
at  finding  that  Miss  T.  is  so  much  more  in  your  counsels 
than  I  am.     You  do  not  care  for  me  as  I  do  for  you." 

Such  a  remark  a  short  time  ago  would  have  brought  a 
warm  denial  and  a  shower  of  kisses.  Now  it  produced 
no  reply ;  and  after  an  awkward  «ilence,  during  which 
Mrs.  Blount  was  rather  out  of  countenance,  she  took  ad- 
vantage of  a  passing  cloud  to  say  she  thought  there  was 
going  to  be  a  shower,  and  that  we  had  better  go  home  ; 
which  we  accordingly  did,  all  feeUng  more  or  less  uncom- 
fortable. 


^ 


The  Cumberers.  65 


CHAPTER    VI. 

CONCLUSION. 

WHILST  penning  these  records  of  a  few  weeks  in 
the  hfe  of  a  Cumberer,  I  have  often  thought  how 
much  easier  it  is  to  write  fiction  well  than  reality. 

In  fiction,  poetical  justice  is  always  done  ;  in  real  life  the 
justice  is  done,  but  it  is  not  always  apparent. 

The  guilty  suffer  secret  remorse,  the  ill-tempered  lose  the 
love  of  their  friends,  the  untruthful  are  distrusted ;  but 
these  punishments,  and  many  such,  are  not  laid  bare  to  the 
eyes  of  others.  If  they  were,  man  would  so  far  take  upon 
himself  to  be  the  judge,  that  he  would  think  himself  justi- 
fied in  adding  the  punishment  of  his  own  neglect  or  con- 
tempt more  openly.  I  proceed  to  the  conclusion  of  my 
narrative. 

The  four  sisters  went  out  to  return  the  calls  of  condo- 
lence that  had  been  paid  them. 

I  was  at  home,  writing  letters,  when  Mrs.  Blount  was 
announced,  and  on  entering,  she  told  me  she  was  come  to 
take  leave,  for  she  must  go  home  to  receive  some  friends, 
who,  not  being  aware  of  her  absence,  had  written  to  say 
that  they  were  coming  to  stay  with  her  at  her  house. 

She  had  brought  her  little  daughter  with  her,  and  was 
tr^'ing  hard  to  make  her  say  she  was  sorry  not  to  see  me 
any  more,  when  Amelia  and  Bessie  came  in. 

She  told  Ameha  of  her  intended  return,  and  I  saw  that 
her  manner  of  so  doing  gave  a  great  deal  of  annoyance. 
Mrs.  Blount  was  warm-hearted,  and  kind  to  those  whom 
she  loved;  but  she  was  sudden  in  taking  both  likes  and 

E 


66  Studies  for  Stories. 

dislikes,  and  she  took  a  liking  without  sufficient  cause,  and 
did  not  disguise  her  change  of  opinion,  when  she  had  ceased 
to  care  for  the  object  of  her  preference.  Amelia  perceived 
that  Mrs.  Blount  no  longer  loved  her  ;  but  she  had  not  been 
told  why,  and  no  doubt  set  the  change  down  in  her  mind  to 
mere  caprice. 

"So,  you  are  not  sorry  that  you  are  going  away  from 
Mentoria,"  said  Mrs.  Blount  to  her  ghild.  "  O,  I  'm  ashamed 
of  you  !  —  do  say  you  are  sorry." 

"But  I  want  to  see  Spot  and  Die,"  pleaded  the  little 
creature  ;  "  and  I  want  to  play  with  Nell's  puppies." 

"  Ah !  you  are  your  father's  own  daughter ;  dogs  and 
horses  are  the  delight  of  your  heart.  Would  you  believe 
it,  my  dear,  Spot  and  Die  are  our  two  old  bay  carriage- 
horses  ?  " 

"  I  have  n't  any  pups  here,"  proceeded  the  child ;  "  I've 
nothing  but  crabs  to  play  with,  and  they  pinch  my  fingers." 

"  But  Mentoria  cut  you  out  such  pretty  things  with  her 
scissors  ;  such  a  number  of  ducks,  and  geese,  and  parrots, 
with  cherries  in  their  beaks,  and  you  don't  love  her  ?  Oh, 
fie  !  I  think  you  had  better  give  her  back  all  those  pretty 
things." 

"  No,  I  sha'  n't !  "  said  the  little  creature.  "  I  do  love  her 
A  LITTLE  ! " 

"  Well,  kiss  her,  then,  and  kiss  Amelia,  and  Miss  Bessie 
Perkins,  for  mamma  must  go." 

The  Httle  one  rose  with  alacrity  from  the  woolly  mat  on 
which  she  had  been  seated,  and  presented  her  rosy  face 
to  each  of  us  in  turn  ;  then  her  mamma  did  the  same  and 
departed.  Amelia's  deep  disappointment  was  evident; 
there  had  been  no  distinguishing  preference  shown  to  her, 
no  sorrow  at  parting,  none  of  the  warmth  of  the  first  meet- 
ing, and  no  hint  that  she  should  hope  soon  to  receive  her 
as  a  guest. 

I  could  not  but  wish  that  it  had  been  otherwise,  and  as  I 


The  Ctimberers.  6j 

sat  with  a  book  in  my  hand,  L stole  a  glance  now  and  then 
at  Amelia,  who,  flushed  and  angry,  was  no  doubt  wonder- 
ing what  could  be  the  cause  of  the  change,  and  why  Mrs. 
Blount  had  not  followed  up  a  hint  which  she  had  given 
more  than  once  in  my  presence,  to  the  effect  that  she  hoped 
Amelia  would  soon  be  well  acquainted  with  her  house  and 
neighborhood.  Ameha  at  length  took  up  her  parasol,  and 
went  up  stairs,  saying,  when  Bessie  observed  that  she 
thought  Mrs.  Blount  had  taken  rather  a  cool  leaving  of  her 
friend,  "  Oh,  no  doubt  I  shall  hear  from  her  soon,  when 
she  is  removed  from  the  influence  of  the  person  who  has 
made  her  dislike  me  ! "  I  felt  my  cheeks  blush  high,  though 
not  with  the  sense  of  detected  guilt ;  and,  though  I  ap- 
peared to  be  reading  with  great  diligence,  not  a  sentence 
impressed  itself  on  my  mind. 

Sarah  shortly  came  in.  She  and  Bessie  went  up  stairs, 
returned  again,  and  were  seated  at  work,  before  I  could 
recall  myself  from  the  brown  study  in  which  I  was  in- 
dulging. 

At  length  Mrs.  Blount's  name  was  mentioned,  and  my 
attention  was  instantly  arrested.  "  She  took  a  very  cool 
leave  of  Amelia,"  repeated  Bessie,  "  and  never  hinted  at 
asking  her  to  stay  with  her,  which  Ameha  always  said  she 
meant  to  do  ;  perhaps  she  will  some  other  time." 

"  She  never  will !  "  said  Sarah. 

"  How  do  you  know  1 "  asked  Bessie,  surprised. 
*    "I  found  it  out  the  other  day,"  said  Sarah  with  a  sigh, 
"when  I  went  out  with  Ameha,  Mrs.  Blount  and  Miss  T." 

I  could  not  help  breaking  into  the  conversation,  by 
saying,  — 

"  And  with  which  of  us  three  were  you  displeased  on  the 
occasion.  Miss  Sarah  ?  " 

Sarah  made  no  answer;  and  Bessie  said,  with  some 
resentment,  — 

"Well,  I  'm  sorry  if  Amelia  has  been  deprived  of  a 


6S  Studies  for  Stories. 

friend.     And  besides,  in  a  family,  what  is  an  advantage 
to  one  is  an  advantage  to  all." 

"  My  dear,"  said  Sarah,  "  if  you  think  Miss  T.  had  any- 
thing to  do  with  it,  I  believe  you  are  mistaken.  My  dear 
Miss  T.,  you  asked  which  of  you  I  was  angry  with  ;  I  was 
not  angry  with  any,  but  I  was  sorry  for  all.  I  was  sorry 
for  Mrs.  Blount,  that  she  had  the  bad  taste  to  ridicule 
Amelia  before  me,  and  the  want  of  sense  to  suppose  I  did 
not  see  what  she  meant ;  and  I  was  sorry  for  you,  because 
you  were  so  much  out  of  countenance  ;  and  I  need  hardly 
say  I  was  sorry  for  Amelia,  for  I  see,  what  I  never  thought 
before,  that  other  people  see  her  faults  as  plainly,  or  more 
so,  than  her  own  family  do.  I  had  no  right  to  be  angry ; 
but  I  own  I  had  hoped  that  Mrs.  Blount  would  be  a  friend 
to  her." 

At  this  moment  Amelia  came  in,  and  the  conversation 
about  her  ceased.  She  was  not  in  a  good  humor,  —  it 
was  scarcely  to  be  expected  that  she  should  be  ;  and  she 
shortly  showed  it  by  speaking  very  unpleasantly  to  her 
elder  sister  about  the  crape  tucks  of  her  dress. 

"  I  told  you,"  said  Sarah,  "  that  you  ought  not  to  sit 
about  on  the  sand  in  your  new  mourning.  Crape  will  not 
stand  sea  air.  You  should  wear  your  common  gown  on 
the  shore." 

"  And  I  told  you^''  returned  Amelia,  "  that  if  you  would 
persist  in  making  our  common  gowns  yourself,  and  making 
them  of  that  inferior  material,  we  should  be  obliged  to  wear* 
our  best." 

"  I  am  not  obliged  to  wear  mine,  my  dear,"  said  Sarah, 
with  a  sigh  ;  "  and  my  mourning  ought  to  be  as  deep  and 
as  good  as  yours." 

"  Mourning  ought  to  be  handsome  !  "  proceeded  Amelia. 

"  My  dear,"  said  Sarah, " "  it  ought  to  be  such  as  the 
mourners  can  afford  to  buy." 

Amelia  was  too  much  out  of  temper  to  consider  her 


TJic  CiimbereTS.  69 

sister's  feelings  ;  and  she  answered,  contemptuously,  "that 
the  feelings  of  the  mourner's  could  not  be  very  keen,  if 
they  could  stop  to  consider  every  shilling  at  such  a  time  ; 
their  grief  must  be  very  moderate,  if  they  could  not  leave 
such  things  as  that  to  dress-makers,  but  must  needs  be 
measuring  and  trimming  old  bonnets  and  turning  skirts 
directly  that  the  funeral  was  over  "  ;  and  then,  being  thor- 
oughly excited,  she  burst  into  a  passion  of  angry  tears,  and 
exclaimed  that  "if  it  had  been  dear  Anne  that  was  in 
mourning  for  one  of  them,  she  was  sure  she  would  not 
have  considered  the  expense  of  every  yard  of  crape,"  — 
going  on  to  lament  her  loss,  and  declare  that  she  was 
always  kind  and  affectionate,  she  always  understood  other 
people's  feelings,  till  I  thought  I  ought  to  get  up  and  leave 
the  room,  which  I  did,  though  I  could  not  help  marvelling 
that  Amelia  did  not  remember,  in  this  panegjTic,  that 
every  word  she  said  was  a  reproach  to  herself  for  being 
such  a  contrast  to  the  sister  whom  she  had  lost. 

In  the  quiet  of  my  own  room,  the  sermon  before  spoken 
of  recurred  to  my  mind,  with  certain  salutary  fears  lest  in 
judging  Amelia  I  should  condemn  myself.  Its  peculiarity 
had  been  its  eminently  practical  nature,  and  from  it  I  had 
first  learned  the  true  position,  both  in  the  natural  world 
and  in  the  spiritual  vineyard,  of  a  Cumberer ;  from  it  I  had 
also  learned  to  notice,  that  it  is  both  natural  and  inevita- 
ble, that  those  who  have  no  settled  occupation  themselves, 
should  be  those  most  prone  to  find  fault  with  the  work  of 
others. 

But  my  acquaintance  with  Miss  AmeHa  Perkins  was 
drawing  to  its  close.  On  coming  down,  I  found  her  in 
high  good  humor,  discussing  with  her  sisters  about  certain 
boxes,  and  about  going  out  to  make  some  purchases.  She 
had  received  a  letter  by  the  afternoon's  post,  inviting  her 
to  go  and  spend  a  month  with  her  cousin  at  York.  I 
heard  some  regret  expressed  by  the  sisters  that  it  should 


70  Studies  for  Stories. 

be  such  an  expensive  journey  ;  but  they  agreed  that  Amelia 
should  go,  as  the  younger  sisters  had  some  expectations 
from  this  cousin,  and  as  Amelia  was  bent  on  a  visit ;  she 
said  she  wanted  something  to  recruit  her  spirits,  after  the 
sad  scenes  she  had  just  gone  through. 

So  the  purchases  were  made,  and  the  boxes  were 
packed,  and  for  two  days  every  one  was  occupied  about 
Amelia ;  the  servants  in  getting  up  and  ironing  her  various 
possessions,  Miss  Sarah  in  working,  and  Miss  Perkins  in 
collecting  her  things  together  and  supplying  deficiencies. 

So  at  length  everything  was  ready,  —  the  boxes  packed, 
the  fly  at  the  door,  the  farewell  kisses  given.  Amelia 
drove  away,  and  after  that  —  what  after  that  ?  Why,  we 
were  much  more  at  ease  than  we  had  been  hitherto. 

People  did  their  work ;  they  did  not  find  fault  with  the 
way  in  which  other  people  did  theirs  ;  no  one  wished  to 
practise  all  the  time  that  others  were  writing  letters  ;  in 
short,  that  good  old  English  word  "  comfortable "  ex- 
pressed what  we  felt  that  day  and  the  days  following. 
We  had  not  felt  comfortable  before.  It  was  a  delightful 
help  merely  not  to  be  hindered. 

And  now  I  take  my  leave  of  Amelia.  Her  character 
might  perhaps  be  a  warning  to  others  like  her,  if  it  wjere 
not  the  most  difficult  thing  in  the  world  to  persuade  any 
person,  who  really  is  such,  to  consider  herself  or  himself 
as  a  Cumberer. 

Many  a  delicate  invalid,  who  overtasks  herself,  thinks 
herself,  notwithstanding,  quite  a  burden,  while  she  is  teach- 
ing, by  her  example,  the  most  improving  lessons  of  patience, 
gentleness,  and  resignation ;  and  many  an  awkward,  yet 
warm-hearted  and  eager  girl,  weeping  over  her  various 
mistakes,  blunders,  and  short-comings,  in  her  anxious  at- 
tempts to  be  kind  and  to  help  others,  and  to  do  a  great 
deal  in  a  Httle  time,  has  been  willing  enough  to  take  to 
herself  the  appellation,  false  indeed  in  her  case,  of  a  Cum- 
berer. 


The  Ctimberers.  71 

But  the  true  Cumberers  are  not  likely,  in  the  first  place, 
ever  to  consider  this  matter  at  all ;  and,  in  the  second 
place,  if  they  do,  to  admit  that  they  deserve  so  undesirable 
a  title. 

Let,  therefore,  those  who  have  the  care  of  young  people 
think  of  it  for  them.  Let  those  who  have  the  rearing  of 
Cumberers  seriously  consider  what  they  are  about;  for 
Cumberers  are  not  all  born  such,  some  are  made  such. 

I  remember  an  anecdote  told  me  by  a  lady,  whom  I  have 
the  pleasure  to  know  intimately,  which  so  strongly  bears 
on  this  point,  that  I  will  venture  to  relate  it  as  a  warning 
to  those  who,  from  amiable  weakness  and  false  kindness, 
cherish  in  others  that  selfishness  which  is  at  the  root  of  the 
Cumberer's  character. 

Shortly  before  the  old  workhouse  system  was  modified, 
this  lady  tells  me  that  she  went  to  the  workhouse  of  the 
small  town  where  she  resided,  with  a  prese|it  of  tea  for  a 
good  old  woman  who  lived  there. 

The  mistress  of  the  workhouse  was  busy,  and  the  door 
was  opened  by  a  pauper  boy,  who  showed  her  into  the  little 
parlor  belonging  to  the  establishment.  Here,  to  the  lady's 
surprise,  she  found  a  sickly-looking  girl  in  curl-papers, 
practising  some  tunes  on  a  very  wretched  piano. 

The  lady  having  told  her  errand,  perhaps  expected  this 
girl,  whom  she  presently  recognized  as  the  mistress's 
daughter,  to  go  and  seek  her  mother ;  but  if  she  did,  she 
was  disappointed.  The  girl  lingered  in  the  room,  looking 
listless  and  disconsolate.  She  did  not  like  to  take  the  lib- 
erty of  going  on  with  her  practising,  and  she  seemed  to 
have  nothing  else  to  do. 

At  length  the  mistress,  a  pleasant,  hearty  woman,  entered 
the  little  parlor,  made  many  apologies  for  keeping  the  lady 
waiting,  but  said  it  was  washing-day,  and  she  had  been 
giving  out  the  soap  required,  and  also  cutting  the  bread 
and  cheese  which  the  children  were  to  have  that  day  for 
their  dinner. 


^2  Studies  for  Stories. 

"  Your  daughter  is  probably  unwell,"  said  the  visitor,  "  as 
she  does  not  help  you." 

"  O  no,  ma'am  !  "  replied  the  foolish  woman  ;  "  but  she 
does  n't  like  going  out  to  walk  much,  and  that  makes  her 
look  pale ;  and  since  I  sent  her  to  boarding-school  she 
can't  bear  stirring  about  in  the  house,  paring  potatoes  and 
ironing,  as  I  do." 

Thinking  it  no  business  of  hers,  the  lady  answered, 
"  Indeed,"  and  then  informed  the  mistress  that  she  had 
brought  some  tea  for  her  old  pensioner. 

"  Thank  you,  ma'am,"  said  the  mistress,  "  I  '11  take  it  up 
to  her  soon,  for  I  shall  have  to  go  up  to  give  out  some 
things  from  the  linen-press.  I  have  a  deal  of  running  up 
and  down  stairs." 

"  Surely  your  daughter  could  save  you  some  of  the 
trouble,"  said  the  visitor,  surprised,  and  held  the  packet 
of  tea  towards  the  girl,  who  rose  so  slowly  and  reluctantly 
to  take  it  that  the  mother  said,  "  O,  ma'am,  I  '11  engage 
that  old  Bet  shall  have  it  long  before  tea  time ;  I  '11  take 
it  up." 

"  As  you  please,"  replied  the  lady ;  and  the  girl,  perhaps, 
seeing  that  her  conduct  was  not  approved,  left  the  room. 

The  visitor  then  said,  "  Mrs.  Green,  is  it  possible  that 
you  take  all  the  fatigues  of  this  place  on  yourself,  when, 
you  have  that  daughter  quite  old  enough  to  help  you  ?  " 

"  Why,  you  see,  ma'am,  the  poor  thing  likes  to  get  away 
from  the  pauper  women,  and  now  she  learns  music,  she  — > 
she  —  does  not  like  to  go  and  help  in  the  kitchen  hke  a 
servant,"  replied  the  mistress,  blushing. 

"  Not  when  her  own  mother  does  it,  and  it  is  her  moth- 
er's duty  to  do  it  ?  Surely  your  daughter  does  not  think 
herself  superior  to  you  ?  because  if  she  does,  she  is  very 
much  mistaken,"  said  the  visitor. 

The  mother  blushed  again  for  her  untidy,  vulgar-looking 
child,  and  said,  "  Why,  ma'am,  when  she  goes  to  school 


The  Cumberers.  73 

she  looks  as  different  as  can  be,  almost  as  neat  and  nice 
as  if  she  were  a  young  lady ;  but  I  don't  wonder  she  should 
go  slipshod  here,  for  there  V  nobody  to  see  her  but  meP 

"  And  who  in  this  world  ought  she  to  respect  if  not  her 
own  mother  ? "  asked  the  visitor.  "  In  whose  eyes  should 
she  wish  to  look  better  ? " 

"Ah!  well,"  said  the  mistress  with  a  sigh,  '■'■she  will 
soine  day,  mayhap ;  but  though  she  's  a  good  girl  enough 
in  some  things,  I  don't  deny  that  she  has  faults,  and  it 's 
one  of  them  not  to  mmd  me  j  and  as  to  the  curl-papers, 
ma'am,  her  hair  curls  so  badly,  that  if  she  did  n't  keep  it 
up  in  them  till  afternoon,  when  she  goes  out  of  doors,  it 
would  be  straight," 

"  If  I  were  her  mother,"  said  "the  lady,  "  she  should 
never  wear  curl-papers  before  me.  If  her  hair  did  not 
curl,  she  should  wear  it  plain." 

"  She  would  look  a  deal  better  if  she  would,"  said  the 
weak  mother;  "and  so  I  often  tell  her." 

"  And  I  hope  you  will  excuse  my  saying,"  proceeded  the 
visitor,  "  that  she  would  also  look  a  great  deal  better  tidily 
dressed,  and  cheerfully  helping  in  either  kitchen  or  laun- 
dry, than  playing  here  on  the  piano  in  such  a  discreditable 
state  of  untidy  neglect." 

"  What  you  say  is  very  right,  ma'am,"  said  the  mistress ; 
"  but  young  girls  get  such  notions  out  of  the  books  they 
read  from  those  circulating  libraries,  —  they  read  about 
fine  ladies,  and  they  want  to  be  ladies  too,  and  sit  doing 
nothing." 

"  If  you  do  not  use  your  authority  to  prevent  her  from 
reading  all  the  trash  of  a  circulating  library,  I  am  afraid 
she  is  not  likely  to  be  any  comfort  to  you,"  said  the  guest. 

The  mistress  looked  grave,  and  said  she  had  not  read 

any  of  those  novels  herself ;  but  she  had  heard  say  that 

they  were  not  all  good  for  girls  to  read  ;  though  as  her 

daughter  was  soon  going  back  to  school,  it  did  not  so  much 

4 


74  Studies  for  Stories. 

matter  ;  and,  no  doubt,  when  she  was  grown  up  she  would 
be  a  very  different  girl. 

"  Finding  that  what  I  said  made  no  impression,"  said  my 
friend,  "  I  then  left  the  workhouse  ;  but  often  when  in  after 
years  I  returned  to  it  to  read  with  or  bring  some  little 
comfort  to  the  old  women,  I  saw  that  weak,  but  fond,  unself- 
ish mother  toiling  up  and  down  stairs,  and  spending  her 
strength  in  the  vain  attempt  to  fulfil  more  duties  than  could 
be  properly  performed  by  a  single  individual,  my  heart 
ached  for  her,  though  I  could  not  but  feel  that  she  had 
encouraged,  by  indulgence,  those  faults  in  her  daughter's 
character  which  should  have  been  most  strenuously  com- 
bated." 

The  girl  grew  up  idle,  useless,  vain,  and  selfish  ;  the 
mother  worked  for  both  as  long  as  her  strength  permitted  ; 
when  it  failed,  she  petitioned  the  poor-law  guardians  to 
give  the  place  to  her  daughter ;  but  they  declined,  on  the 
ground  of  her  utter  incompetence ;  and  the  consequence 
was,  she  had  to  go  to  service,  while  her  mother,  being  re- 
spected as  a  hard-working  and  honest  woman,  got  a  place 
in  an  Alms-house,  and  then  lamented,  when  too  late,  that 
she  had  brought  up  her  daughter  to  cumber,  instead  of  to 
cultivate,  the  ground. 

And  now  I  will  venture  to  add  a  few  words  to  those  who 
are  at.  present,  or  who  are  in  danger  of  becoming,  Cumber- 
ers  ;  and  as  no  one  will  admit  that  she  is  of  no  use,  benefit, 
or  help  to  any  one,  and  that  if  she  should  die,  no  one  would 
be  the  worse  off  by  the  value  of  those  household  charities, 
those  domestic  duties,  or  those  acts  of  kindness  which 
were  received  from  her ;  it  will  be  desirable  not  to  judge 
so  much  by  actions  in  trying  to  discover  the  truth,  as  by 
viotives. 

How  beautiful  is  that  saying  of  Holy  Writ,  —  "  The  de- 
sire of  a  man  is  his  kindness  ! "  Is  it  then  our  habitual 
state  of  mind  to  be  wholly  occupied  with  our  own  plans, 


The  Cumberers.  75 

our  own  advantages,  our  own  pursuits,  or  do  we  constantly 
devise  plans  by  which  we  can  add  to  the  comfort  of  others  ? 
Is  self  our  motive,  are  we  self-seekers,  self-sparers,  self- 
justifiers,  or  are  we  considerate  and  observant  for  others  ? 

We  must  not  only  consider  whether  what  we  do  is  a 
pleasure  in  some  instances,  but  whether  we  design  it  to  be 
a  pleasure  to  our  families. 

Thus  I  once  heard  a  lady,  who  was  a  noble  instance  (JT 
a  Cumberer,  say,  "It  is  very  unjust  your  saying  that  I 
don't  do  anything  to  help  in  the  house,  or  to  amuse  the 
family ;  there 's  my  music."  "  Yes,"  replied  the  sister-in- 
law,  to  whom  the  remark  had  been  addressed,  "  but  though 
you  do  play  beautifully,  and  thus  often  happen  to  amuse 
us,  you  don't  play  for  our  benefit  or  pleasure,  but  your 
own ;  if  it  were  unpleasant  to  you  to  play,  you  would  not 
do  it,  for  you  very  often  play  when  it  is  very  unpleasant  to 
us,  and  at  very  inconvenient  times,  and  I  cannot  but  think 
your  happening  to  be  fond  of  music,  and  thus  happening 
to  amuse  us,  does  not  prove  what  I  said  to  be  incorrect, 
that  you  seldom  do  anything  which  you  design  to  be  useful 
or  agreeable,  and  I  wish  it  was  otherwise." 

And  now  I  will  add  to  this  little  paper  the  last  news  I 
heard  concerning  Amelia.  She  inherited  a  handsome  for- 
tune from  the  old  relative  whom  she  went  to  visit,  and 
she  very  shortly  married,  but  having  quarrelled  with  her 
sisters,  and  thus  lost  her  best  counsellors,  she  and  her  hus- 
band soon  contrived  to  spend  all  that  portion  of  the  prop- 
erty which  was  in  their  own  power,  and  being  always  in 
debt,  through  carelessness  and  mismanagement,  together 
with  a  selfish  dislike  to  trouble,  which  she  had  indulged  in 
her  girlhood,  they  were  at  length  obhged  to  apply  to  their 
eldest  sister  to  lend  them  what  assistance  might  be  in  her 
power.  This  excellent  woman  did  so,  by  taking  their  two 
eldest  children  to  live  with  her  for  a  certain  period ;  while 
they  let  their  house,  dismissed  their  servants,  and  went  to 


76 


Studies  for  Stories. 


live  for  a  year  or  two  at  Boulogne,  to  retrench,  and  if  pos- 
sible practise  such  economy  as  should  enable  them  to  re- 
turn to  their  native  country. 

Here,  for  want  of  a  more  satisfactory  termination,  must 
end  the  records  of  a  Cumberer. 


MY    GREAT-AUNT'S    PICTURE. 


CHAPTER    I. 


THE  following  papers  were  lately  put  into  my  hands 
by  an  anonymous  correspondent,  with  a  request  that 
they  might  be  arranged  for  the  press. 

At  first  sight  they  appeared  to  be  intended  for  the  perusal 
of  some  particular  person,  but,  after  due  consideration,  I 
came  to  the  conclusion,  that  since  it  was  vain  to  seek  for 
that  person,  and  not  less  vain  to  attempt  to  discover  my 
unknown  correspondent,  it  would  be  best  to  throw  them 
loose  upon-  the  world  to  find  themselves  an  owner ;  there- 
fore, my  reader,  I  offer  them  to  you,  or,  in  the  words  of  the 
old  proverb,  "  I  present  you  with  this  cap,  and  if  it  fits,  I 
pray  you  put  it  on." 

Many  confess  (thus  the  manuscript  begins)  that  they  are 
proud ;  some  will  even  confess  that  they  are  vain  ;  some 
will  sigh  frankly  over  their  passionate  tempers  ;  and  others 
again  will  admit  that  they  are  of  careless  dispositions.  But 
who  tells,  who  confesses  how  mean  she  is,  or  how  sly,  or 
how  envious  ?  Who  does  this,  or  could  hope  for  sympathy 
if  she  did  ? 

Nevertheless,  though  such  confessions  are  not  sanctioned 
by  custom,  there  is  that  within  me  which  so  longs  to  ex- 
press itself,  that  I  must  needs  forsake  the  beaten  track  of 
easy  acknowledgment.  I  must  leave  those  faults  which  no 
one  feels  much  shame  in  taking  to  herself,  and  confess  to 
you  how  envious  I  am ;  and  though  I  do  not  expect  much 


So  Studies  for  Stories. 

sympathy  from  you,  I  shall,  at  least,  have  the  comfort  of 
being  understood,  since  you  also,  like  a  captive  taken  an- 
ciently in  war,  are  marked  in  the  face  as  the  bond-slave 
of —  Envy.  By  that  unmistakable  mark  I  know  that  we 
both  serve  the  same  hard  mistress,  and  that,  like  me,  you 
have  received  pain  from  those  pleasures  of  others  which 
you  are  not  permitted  to  share. 

Now,  it  is  a  curious  fact  that  you  do  not  consider  your- 
self to  be  an  envious  person,  and  you  would  be  angry  and 
hurt  if  your  friends  thought  it  of  you.  I  did  not  know  till 
lately  that  I  was  envious,  and,  of  course,  I  am  very  anxious 
to  conceal  it  from  my  friends,  though  with  you  I  am  not  so 
particular,  because  our  hearts  are  so  much  akin,  that  though 
we  may  disapprove  of,  we  cannot  despise  one  another. 

But  let  me  proceed.  Know  then,  my  envious  kinswo- 
man, that  I  have  two  maiden  aunts,  dear  and  kindly 
women,  and  that  they  live  in  a  delightful  cottage  near  the 
sea.  There  is  no  house  to  be  seen  on  either  hand,  and 
the  shore  is  lonely  and  beautiful.  The  house  is  settled 
half-way  down  in  a  scoop  of  the  sloping  hills,  and  from  the 
sea  it  looks  like  a  pure  white  ^gg  in  a  green  nest  of  moss 
and  twigs,  for  the  trees  rise  behind  it,  and  fern  lies  around 
it,  and  in  the  dingle  below  there  is  a  tiny  singing  brook 
which  the  sun  never  catches  sight  of  all  the  summer  long, 
so  thickly  is  it  roofed  over  by  the  trees. 

Last  August  T  was  invited  to  stay  at  this  place  with  my 
aunts,  for  the  first  time  since  my  childhood.  When  I  ar- 
rived I  was  much  grown  and  altered,  and  a  great  deal  of 
discussion  ensued  as  to  whom  I  most  resembled. 

"  She  has  the  family  features,  certainly,"  said  my  Aunt 
Mary. 

"  But  she  is  not  so  much  like  any  of  the  present  genera- 
tion," added  my  aunt  Phoebe,"  as  like  the  picture  of  her 
great-aunt  Beatrice  which  hangs  over  the  mantel-piece." 

As  she  spoke  I  looked  up  at  the  picture,  and  a  momen- 


My  Great- Ann fs  Picture.  8 1 

tary  sensation  of  pleased  surprise  stole  into  my  heart 
Had  I  then  those  delicate  eyebrows,  that  clear  cheek,  those 
large  thoughtful  eyes  ?  But  I  had  scarce  ventured  to  ad- 
mit to  myself  that  there  was  a  likeness,  when  something 
peculiar  in  the  expression  gave  me  pain.  I  wondered 
what  it  meant.  It  was  not  precisely  pensive,  it  was  not 
anxious,  it  was  not  penetrating.  It  might  consist  of  all 
these  feelings,  but  there  was  something  more  besides  that 
I  could  not  fathom. 

I  looked  again.  "  The  expression  is  yet  more  hke  than 
the  features,"  said  my  dear  aunt  Mary,  and  then  they 
dropped  the  subject ;  but  I  could  not  dismiss  it ;  and  often 
during  the  evening  while  they  talked,  sitting  one  on  each 
side  of  me,  asking  after  my  parents,  and  my  sisters,  and 
some  old  friends  of  theirs  who  lived  near  my  native  home, 
I  could  not  help  casting  furtive  glances  at  the  picture,  and 
always  felt  both  pain  and  pleasure  in  the  likeness  to  my- 
self. Once  when  I  looked,  the  sun,  just  about  to  set,  had 
covered  it  with  Hght,  which  came  in  through  a  side-win- 
dow, and  the  features,  before  so  quiet  and  so  pale,  seemed 
to  flush  up  with  sudden  bloom  :  it  did  not  improve  them, 
for  it  gave,  with  the  appearance  of  life  that  flashed  from  my 
kinswoman's  eyes  into  mine,  a  glance  half  reproachful,  half 
regretful,  which  seemed  to  say,  "  You  have  all  the  notice, 
and  I  hang  up  here  unobserved.  Oh  that  I  could  but  step 
down  from  my  frame,  and  show  those  doting  old  women 
how  much  fairer  I  am,  and  how  far  worthier  of  all  this 
fondness  and  caressing  than  you  are  !  " 

I  thought  this  was  an  odd  fancy  of  mine  ;  yet,  when  the 
sun  had  gone  down,  and  the  dusk  had  hidden  my  kins- 
woman's picture,  I  could  not  but  feel  glad  ;  and  I  went  on 
chatting  to  my  aunts  till  the  darkness  had  covered  every- 
thing, and  the  moon  had  risen,  and  was  hanging  like  a 
great  lamp  over  the  sea.  It  was  the  only  lamp  we  had. 
My  aunts  were  evidently  so  much  interested  to  converse 
4*  F 


82  Studies  for  Stories. 

again  with  the  grown-up  niece  whom  they  had  made  so 
much  of  when  a  child,  and  I  was  so  well  pleased  to  find 
them  absorbed  in  me  and  my  communications,  and  so  de- 
lighted to  watch  the  beautiful  highway,  yellow,  and  yet  wan 
of  hue,  which  the  moon  had  laid  over  the  leaden-tinted 
waters,  that  time  was  allowed  to  slip  away,  and  I  beHeve 
we  were  all  surprised  when  the  maid  brought  in  bedroom 
candles,  and  said  it  was  the  hour  for  retiring. 

Then  we  rose  up,  —  for  we  had  been  sitting  before  the 
front  windows,  —  and  I,  in  turning,  glanced  up  again  at 
my  kinswoman's  picture  ;  pale,  how  very  pale,  in  the  moon- 
beams which  had  wandered  up  the  vale.  O,  what  a  look 
seemed  to  meet  me  as  I  gazed  !  "  Yes,"  I  said  to  myself, 
"  I  know  now  the  true  meaning  of  that  expression  ;  if  your 
living  face  had  looked  at  me  thus,  I  should  have  known, 
fair  lady,  that  you  were  envious  of  me." 

My  aunts  had  told  me,  before  we  parted  for  the  night, 
that  they  had  sent  for  my  cousin,  Rosie  Grant,  to  visit 
them  whilst  I  was  there  ;  and  that  she  was  coming  the  next 
day. 

She  was  a  year  younger  than  myself,  and  I  did  not  doubt 
that  she  was  much  my  inferior ;  for  she  had  enjoyed  fewer 
advantages,  her  parents  not  being  able  to  afford  them  for 
her.  I  thought  I  should  find  her  an  untaught  little  Cock- 
ney, prim  and  womanish  in  manner,  nevertheless  ;  for  one 
seldom  sees  much  simplicity  among  Londoners.  "  That 
does  not  matter  to  me,"  I  thought,  "for  I  would  always 
rather  have  a  foil  than  a  rival." 

The  next  day  this  Rosie  came ;  a  round-faced,  yellow- 
haired  creature,  with  deep  dimples,  and  a  head  all  over 
rippling  curls  ;  there  was  nothing  classical  or  finely  drawn 
about  her  features.  I  saw  at  a  glance  that  no  likeness  was 
in  her  face  to  our  beautiful  aunt ;  but  there  was  a  sunny 
radiance  in  her  expression,  a  simpHcity  and  obedience  in 
her  manner,  a*something  so  joyous  and  artless  in  the  greet- 


My  Great- Atmfs  Picture.  83 

ing  she  gave  to  her  aunts,  that  I  was  delighted  ;  especially 
when  I  found  that,  though  nearly  seventeen  years  old,  she 
treated  me  with  deference  and  docihty,  as  if  she  felt  that 
the  difference  between  us  was  great. 

My  aunts  sat  at  home  and  knitted.  Rosie  and  I  spent 
the  day  on  the  beach  together.  I  naturally  took  the  lead, 
and  none  of  my  proposals  came  amiss  to  her  ;  she  was 
equally  happy  anywhere  ;  clambering  among  the  woods 
which  were  nestled  in  on  the  deep  spaces  between  the 
cliffs,  or  picking  up  shells,  or  reading  under  the  shadows 
of  the  rocks.  ♦ 

That  was  a  delightful  day  ;  and  when  we  came  home  at 
seven  o'clock  to  tea,  we  were  not  sorry  to  find  three  gen- 
tlemen sitting  with  my  aunts,  a  father  and  two  sons.  Very 
agreeable  young  men,  these  latter  were  ;  but  I  must  say 
that  neither  of  them  cared  to  talk  to  pretty,  simple  Rosie  ; 
they  both  seemed  to  feel  that  I  was  more  likely  to  under- 
stand them,  and  I  made  no  effort  to  have  it  otherwise. 

After  tea  my  aunts  asked  for  music,  and  Rosie  inquired 
where  she  should  find  mine.  I  told  her ;  she  brought  it, 
opened  the  piano,  set  the  stool  for  me,  and  I  played  sev- 
eral pieces  one  after  the  other.  I  had  been  well  taught, 
and  I  believe  I  played  them  accurately,  though  I  have  no 
particular  talent  for  music.  The  guests  were  pleased,  and 
still  asked  for  more  ;  they  said  they  so  seldom  heard  mu- 
sic, that  they  hoped  I  would  not  leave  the  piano  so  soon. 
So  I  played  one  more  piece  ;  but  I  did  not  quite  know  it, 
and  after  making  several  blunders,  got  rather  lamely  to 
the  end,  heartily  wishing  that  I  had  been  contented  to 
stop  earlier. 

"  Now,  Rosie,  you  may  play  something,"  said  my  Aunt 
Mary. 

"  My  books  are  not  unpacked  yet,  aunt,"  said  the  little 
girl. 

My  aunt  smiled.     "  That  excuse  will  scarcely  serve  you, 


84  Sttidies  for  Stories, 

Rosie,"  she  said  ;  "  play  something  without  your  notes, 
my  dear." 

Rosie  evidently  did  not  like  to  play  before  strangers,  and 
she  blushed  till  her  dehcate  neck  and  forehead  were  tinged 
with  crimson.  She,  however,  sat  down,  and  the  guests, 
apparently  to  relieve  her  bashfulness,  began  to  talk  on  in- 
different subjects.  Under  cover  of  this  talk,  Rosie  pres- 
ently began  to  play,  and  one  voice  after  another  became 
silent.  She  was  not  playing  anything  more  difficult  than  I 
had  attempted  ;  but,  O  the  difference  in  feeling  !  I  per- 
ceived that  I  had  merely  gratified  their  ears,  but  that 
my  cousin  was  touching  their  hearts.  How  unlucky,  I 
thought,  that  I  was  not  aware  how  well  she  played ;  if  I 
had  known,  nothing  should  have  induced  me  to  exhibit 
my  own  inferiority. 

They  shortly  asked  me  to  play  again,  but  I  declined, 
and  held  so  resolutely  back  that  they  soon  desisted,  and 
the  time  passed  very  unpleasantly  to  both  of  us  ;  for  Rosie 
was  obliged  to  go  on  playing,  shy  as  she  was,  and  I  felt 
more  every  piece  she  performed,  that  I  wished  I  had 
known  of  her  proficiency  beforehand.  I  began  not  to  like 
Rosie  so  much,  and  was  glad  when  the  guests  went  away, 
which  they  did  about  nine  o'clock  ;  and  then  my  Aunt 
Mary  drew  Rosie's  arm  through  hers,  and  said,  "  Come, 
let  us  walk  on  the  terrace,  in  the  moonlight,  Rosie,  and 
you  shall  tell  us  about  them  all  at  home  ;  I  have  hardly 
spoken  to  you  yet,  child." 

My  Aunt  Phoebe  asked  me  to  come  with  them ;  but  I 
said  I  was  afraid  of  the  evening  air,  so  I  was  left  alone, 
till,  happening  to  lift  up  my  eyes,  I  became  conscious  of  a 
strange  kind  of  fancied  companionship.  There  was  the 
picture  looking  at  me  with  its  large  pensive  eyes.  "  I 
know  what  is  the  matter  with  you,"  it  seemed  to  say ; 
"  you  are  envious  of  your  Cousin  Rosie's  music." 

I  turned  away  my  head,  and  would  not  look  :  but  there 


My  Great-Aunt's  Picture.  8$ 

was  a  kind  of  charm  for  me  in  that  face,  and  after  a  while 
my  eyes  were  again  attracted  to  it. 

"  You  need  not  disclaim  the  bond  between  us,"  it  seemed 
to  say  ;  "  you  had  better  not,  for  we  understand  each  other. 
Stay  with  me  ;  why  indeed  should  you  go  out  (though  the 
night  be  lovely)  and  walk  silently  by  while  your  aunts 
make  much  of  Rosie  ;  you  were  everything  last  night,  now 
you  are  quite  eclipsed  by  this  new  star." 

"  It  is  ridiculous  to  suppose  that  I  can  be  envious  of 
such  a  silly  childlike  creature  as  that,"  I  mentally  answered 
to  the  face  in  the  frame.  And  so  I  sat,  more  and  more 
pained  to  see  that  look  in  it,  and  to  feel  certain  that  just 
then  it  must  be  visible  in  my  own  face,  till  my  aunts  came 
in,  and  we  shortly  retired,  —  Rosie  and  I  sleeping  together. 

As  soon  as  breakfast  was  over  the  next  morning,  Rosie 
was  impatient  to  go  down  to  the  beach  ;  but  I  said  I 
wished  to  write  a  letter  first,  so  my  aunts  gave  her  permis- 
sion to  descend  by  herself,  and  walk  about  till  I  could  join 
her. 

We  were  standing  out  in  the  veranda  when  Rosie  was 
thus  set  at  large,  and  she  forthwith  set  off  down  the  slope, 
half  running,  half  dancing,  quickening  and  quickening  her 
pace  as  it  became  steeper  till  she  was  obliged  to  run  as 
fast  as  she  possibly  could.  She  stopped  when  she  had 
reached  the  level  sands,  and  looking  up,  laughed  and  waved 
her  hands  to  us,  and  then  ran  off  to  the  water-side. 

My  aunt  had  said  to  her  that  morning,  "  Rosie,  my  dear, 
what  a  child  you  are ;  when  do  you  mean  to  grow  up .'' " 
And  I  felt  at  the  time  that  my  quieter  manners  impressed 
them  with  the  idea  that  I  had  a  better  regulated  mind,  and 
more  ladylike  habits.  Now,  however,  they  seemed  to  have 
forgotten  that  they  had  expostulated,  and  they  both  laughed 
heartily.  I  thought  this  more  like  the  behavior  of  a  school- 
boy than  a  young  lady,  and  stood  looking  quietiy  on.  I 
felt  that  her  careless  ease,  her  joyous  youth  and  spirits, 


86  Studies  for  Stories. 

were  beautiful  in  their  eyes  ;  and  therefore,  though  it  was 
natural  to  me  to  be  quieter  in  my  movements,  I  believe  I 
should  have  run  down  like  Rosie,  if  I  had  known  that 
they  would  admire  her  for  it. 

"  How  that  dear  girl  enjoys  herself !  "  said  one. 

"  O,  she  is  a  sweet,  happy  creature,"  said  the  other. 
"  And  why  don't  you  race  down  in  that  way  ?  Eh,  Milli- 
cent  ?  " 

I  hesitated,  and  then  replied,  "  that  I  preferred  to  enjoy 
things  in  moderation." 

I  saw  that  my  aunt  Phoebe  felt  that  there  was  something 
in  that.  "  To  be  sure,  my  dear,"  she  answered,  "  modera- 
tion is  a  very  good  thing." 

"  And  besides,"  I  continued,  with  still  a  little  hesitation 
in  my  manner,  as  if  I  did  not  wish  to  find  fault  with  my 
cousin,  and  with  a  certain  air  of  reluctance  and  regret,  "  I 
don't  know,  aunt,  that  it  is  altogether  ladylike  in  Rosie  to 
race  about  in  that  way  the  moment  she  is  out  of  her  moth- 
er's sight." 

"  Her  mother  !  "  exclaimed  my  aunt  Mary  ;  "  nothing 
would  please  her  mother  better  than  to  see  her  taking 
this  healthy  exercise." 

"It  would  be  out  of  place  in  Hyde  Park,"  said  my  aunt 
Phoebe,  rather  coldly  I  thought ;  "  but  I  see  no  harm  in  it 
here,  where  there  are  only  two  old  aunts  and  one  young 
cousin  for  lookers  on." 

It  certainly  is  part  of  the  misery  of  many,  to  feel  keenly 
the  merits  and  perceive  the  beauties  of  others  ;  it  is  indeed 
those  merits  and  those  beauties  which  make  half  our  pain. 
And  when  my  aunts  went  on  as  it  were,  apologizing  for 
Rosie,  by  telHng  me  anecdotes  concerning  the  sweetness 
of  her  temper,  her  usefulness  at  home,  her  obedience,  and 
her  pretty  natural  ways,  I  felt  that  I  had  brought  it  upon 
myself,  and  that  every  word  said  for  Rosie  was  said  against 
me  ;  for  I  was  sure  that  my  aunts  had  thought  my  insinu- 


My  Great- Au7it' s  Picture.  8/ 

ations  unkind.  Presently,  the  young  gentlemen  who  had 
spent  the  previous  evening  with  us,  made  their  appear- 
ance ;  they  brought  their  sister  with  them,  and  a  message 
from  their  father  to  the  effect,  that  he  should  be  happy  to 
take  out  all  the  ladies  that  evening  in  his  yacht. 

They  sat  with  us  some  time.  I  did  not  go  down  to 
Rosie,  and  one  of  my  aunts  at  length  went  and  fetched 
her  in.  At  the  open  street-door  I  heard  her  sweet  voice. 
"Aunt,"  she  said,  "the  sea  air  has  made  my  hair  perfectly 
straight." 

My  aunt  laughed,  and  called  her  long  locks  "  rats-tails  " ; 
what  a  figure  she  must  look,  I  thought ;  but  I  was  not 
sorry,  I  felt  rather  pleased. 

I  called  her  as  she  was  going  up  stairs,  and  our  guests 
arose  as  she  appeared  at  the  door,  and  spoke  to  her.  As 
I  had  been  sitting  at  work  so  neat  and  so  free  from  dust 
or  soil,  I  had  felt  what  a  contrast  Rosie  would  be  to  me ; 
all  blown  about  as  she  had  been  with  the  wind,  and  so 
untidy.     That  was  why  I  called  her. 

But  when  she  came  and  stood  within  the  door,  I  men- 
tally regretted  what  I  had  done  ;  for  as  she  looked  out 
between  those  long  falls  of  nearly  straight  hair,  there  was 
such  a  radiant  sweetness  in  her  gentle  face,  and  such  a 
flush  of  health,  as  far  more  than  made  up  for  any  little  dis- 
order of  dress  ;  and  though  it  seems  to  show  such  a  paltry 
state  of  feeling,  I  know  you  will  understand  me,  when  I 
confess  that  I  regretted  that  I  had  been  the  means  of  her 
showing  how  sweet  she  could  look  under  any  disadvan- 
tage. Once  more,  I  felt  that  where  I  had  been  sustaining 
my  part  well,  she  had  come  forward  and  thrown  me  into 
the  background;  for  now  she  must  needs  produce  her 
little  apron  full  of  fern  leaves,  and  plovers'  eggs,  and 
shells,  and  sea-weeds,  to  show  to  my  aunts ;  and  every  one 
looked  at  her,  and  talked  to  her,  and  turned  to  her,  and 
turned  away  from  me. 


88  Studies  for  Stories. 

O,  what  little  things  these  are  to  tell,  what  paltry,  ignoble 
trifles  !  yet  these,  and  such  as  these,  occupied  me  every 
day,  and  all  day  long  ;  while  hourly  my  great-aunt  over  the 
chimney-piece  chastened  me  with  her  serious  eyes,  and 
seemed  to  say,  "  Look  up,  Millicent,  look  at  me ;  this  is 
how  you  are  looking  now,  and  every  day  your  likeness  to 
me  grows  stronger."  For  several  days  I  would  not  allow 
that  envy  had  place  in  my  heart ;  it  was  several  more  ere 
I  could  acknowledge  that  it  was  always  working  there, 
destroying  my  pleasure,  distorting,  beginning  to  show  it- 
self to  the  penetration  of  others,  and  making  me  hateful  in 
my  own  eyes,  and  in  the  eyes  of  my  Maker.  Every  morn- 
ing I  awoke,  and  resolved  to  shake  it  oif ;  but  it  was  so 
entwined  with  my  heartstrings,  that  it  seemed  as  natural 
to  me  as  the  very  pulse  in  my  veins. 

If  Rosie  had  been  ugly,  morose,  uninteresting,  I  felt 
that  my  visit  would  have  been  pleasanter ;  and  yet,  every 
one  was  kind,  polite,  attentive  to  us  both.  O,  why  could 
not  I  be  happy  to  let  her  shine  as  well  as  myself? 

Well,  I  thought  to  myself,  I  have  certainly  never  given 
way  to  envy  before  ;  but  Rosie  has  some  peculiar  faculty 
for  arousing  it.  When  I  go  home  and  get  away  from  her, 
my  envy  will  cease.  My  aunts  seemed  always  to  be  taking 
Rosie's  part ;  perhaps  because  of  those  very  slight  insin- 
uations against  her,  which  I  could  not  help  sometimes 
uttering;  I  could  not  help  sometimes  disparaging  her. 
The  family  that  I  had  before  mentioned  were  particularly 
pleased  with  her ;  they  praised  her  beauty,  simphcity,  and 
sweetness,  and  that  to  me,  and  expected  me  to  agree  with 
them ;  in  fact,  they  even  seemed  to  do  it  in  compliment  to 
me,  as  if  being  her  cousin,  I  must  needs  be  proud  of  her. 

Once,  when  they  had  praised  everything  else  about  her, 
they  even  praised  her  name  :  "  Such  a  pretty  name,"  they 
said,  "and  so  appropriate."  I  hastened  to  inform  them 
that  it  was  not  her  real  name,  only  a  name  that  she  had 
given  herself;  her  real  name  was  Anne. 


My  Great- Aunt' s  Picture.  89 

"A  name  that  she  gave  herself,""  was  the  reply;  "I 
should  not  have  given  her  credit  for  such  conceit  and  self- 
consciousness  as  knowing  that  such  a  name  would  suit 
her."  And  the  speaker  showed  evident  discontent  with 
Rosie.  ^ 

"  My  dear,"  said  my  aunt  Mary,  "  you  should  have  men- 
tioned that  the  name  was  adopted  by  your  cousin  before 
she  could  speak  plainly,  or  know  the  significance  of  it." 

"  O  yes,"  I  said,  rather  vexed  ;  "  did  I  not  mention  that  ?  " 

"  O  no,  my  dear,"  rephed  my  aunt  in  a  low  voice,  "  of 
course  not."  We  were  sitting  on  the  sand,  and  almost  im- 
mediately our  friends  left  us,  and  said  they  must  go  home 
to  dinner. 

"  Aunt,"  said  I,  when  they  had  withdrawn,  "  why  did  you 
say,  '  Of  course  not  ? '  why  is  it  of  course  not  ?  " 

"  Because  it  would  not  have  answered  your  end,  my 
dear,"  replied  my  aunt  calmly. 

I  felt  my  cheeks  bum  ;  what  was  my  purpose  ?  Did  she 
mean  that  my  purpose  was  to  disparage  my  cousin  ?  I  re- 
ally dared  not  ask  her,  for  though  she  had  not  been  very 
explicit,  I  was  quite  certain  that  she  had  read  my  inmost 
thoughts,  and  I  was  obliged  to  begin  talking  of  something 
else,  lest  she  should  explain  herself  without  being  asked. 

From  that  hour,  my  little  remaining  pleasure  in  the  visit 
was  gone,  and  I  longed  to  be  away  from  the  object  of  my 
envy  and  from  the  observer  of  it.  Every  day  I  envied,  and 
often  was  reproved,  especially  by  my  great-aunt's  picture. 
At  length  the  day  came  for  my  departure  ;  Rosie  had  left 
the  day  before,  and  remembering  my  aunt's  fond  parting 
with  her,  and  the  great  regret  expressed  by  this  family  of 
friends  on  her  departure,  I  was  very  much  hurt  to  find  that 
the  same  feelings  were  not  aroused  for  me,  nor  the  same 
degree  of  sorrow  felt  at  losing  me.  I  came  down  stairs 
ready  equipped  for  my  journey,  and  my  aunts,  after  kissing 
me,  informed  me  that  they  had  got  a  present  for  me. 


90  Studies  for  Stories. 

"  Which  we  think  will  be  acceptable,"  said  my  aunt 
Mary. 

"  Because,  my  dear  Millicent,"  said  my  aunt  Phcebe, 
"  we  have  noticed  that  you  really  cannot  keep  your  eyes  off 
it ;  you  are  far  more  attracted  by  it  than  by  anything  else 
in  our  little  house." 

"  What  is  it,  dear  aunt  ?  "  said  I,  half  frightened. 

"  My  dear,"  she  replied,  "  it  is  your  great-aunt's  picture." 

I  was  obliged  to  accept  it. 


My  Great' Aunt's  Picture.  91 


CHAPTER    II. 

THE     LI-LY     CROWN. 

I  WAS  obliged  to  accept  that  picture.  I  was  obliged  to 
carry  it  home  and  show  it  to  my  parents,  who  said  it 
was  the  very  image  of  me,  and  that  they  should  hang  it  up 
in  the  drawing-room. 

Woe  worth  the  day !  Such  shocking  things  as  it  was 
always  telling  me  about  myself  no  one  would  believe  who 
had  not  felt  their  truth.  It  told  me  that  I  was  envious  of 
my  own  sisters  whenever  people  preferred  their  manners, 
their  voices,  their  conversation,  their  very  dress,  to  mine  ; 
that  if  they  were  well,  I  envied  their  superior  bloom  ;  that 
if  they  were  ill,  I  envied  the  care,  the  anxiety,  the  attention 
they  excited.  I  envied  the  elder  her  precedence,  I  envied 
the  younger  her  sprightliness. 

And  yet,  I  do  not  know  that  I  ought  to  murmur,  or  that 
I  have  any  right  to  be  sorry  ;  for  hard,  inconceivably  hard 
as  the  cure  is,  I  humbly  hope  the  days  are  beginning  to 
dawn  that  shall  see  its  completion. 

But  I  must  proceed.  It  was  bitter  to  me  to  be  admon- 
ished, day  by  day,  by  that  beautiful  serious  face,  and  to  be 
told  that  I  envied  my  sisters.  I  struggled  for  some  time 
against  believing  that  I  was  guilty  of  so  odious  a  fault,  but 
at  length  I  was  compelled  to  admit  the  fact,  anjd,  in  so 
doing,  I  felt  as  much  ashamed  as  if  all  the  household  had 
known  it  as  well  as  myself 

I  did  not  yield  willingly  and  unconsciously  to  this  beset- 
ting fault,  but  the  clear  dark  eyes  looking  down  on  me  from 
under  their  drooping  lashes  were  such  a  punishment  in 


92  Studies  for  Stories. 

their  constant  supervision,  that  I  am  ashamed  to  say  it 
was  quite  a  rehef  to  me  when  a  plan  was  decided  on  by 
which  my  sisters  would  be  out  of  my  way  for  the  rest  of 
the  summer.  They  were  invited  by  my  married  brother  to 
make  a  tour  of  the  Continent  with  him  and  his  two  little 
daughters,  and  my  parents  consented  that  they  should  go. 

Did  I  envy  them  the  pleasure  they  were  Hkely  to  derive 
from  this  tour  ?  I  believe  I  did  feel  some  pain  at  heart  to 
think  that  I  had  not  been  included  in  the  invitation,  but  it 
was  such  an  inexpressible  comfort  to  be  left  in  quiet  with 
no  one  to  envy,  as  almost  made  amends  for  any  disappoint- 
ment. I  hoped  that  by  the  time  my  sisters  returned  envy 
might  have  died  out  for  want  of  fuel  to  feed  the  flame,  or 
that  I  might  have  argued  myself  or  schooled  myself  into 
a  better  frame  of  mind.  I  have  heard  it  said  that  the  envi- 
ous person,  though  he  is  made  miserable  by  his  neighbor's 
prosperity,  does  nothing  to  diminish  that  prosperity,  —  he 
is,  in  short,  no  one's  enemy  but  his  own. 

I  used  at  one  time  to  excuse  my  envy  by  thinking  of  this 
saying,  but  I  soon  found  out  that,  though  plausible,  it  is 
false.  The  envious  person  is,  in  truth,  his  own  enemy, 
but  he  is  as  truly  the  enemy  of  every  one  whom  he  envies. 
This  passion,  like  all  others,  must  necessarily  seek  to  dis- 
play itself  in  action.  They  who  bitterly  envy  cannot  pos- 
sibly refrain  from  showing  and  acting  on  it,  they  mtist  be 
consistent.  They  cannot  praise  heartily,  they  cannot  cor- 
dially assist,  they  cannot  report  fairly,  they  cannot  gener- 
ously make  allowance,  they  cannot  be  just. 

But  I  proceed,  — 

My  sijters  went  on  their  tour,  and  I  was  left  at  home. 
I  had  no  one  to  envy,  and  the  picture  began  to  lose  its  in- 
fluence over  me.  I  no  longer  dreaded  to  look  at  it,  for  it 
did  not  reflect  my  thoughts,  and  I  could  now  sit  and  occupy 
myself  at  my  little  work-table  without  that  constant  looking 
up,  which  had  become  quite  a  habit  with  me. 


My  Great-Aiinf s  Picture.  93 

One  afternoon,  after  a  very  quiet  morning,  I  put  on  my 
bonnet,  and  descended  the  old  steps  of  the  terrace  which 
lies  against  the  west  side  of  the  house.  I  went  into  the 
garden  and  wandered  about  for  some  time  among  the 
flowers,  till  I  came  to  a  favorite  border  of  hollyhocks 
(which  were  just  then  in  full  bloom)  and  stood  before  them, 
occupied  in  thinking  how  short  a  time  had  completed  their 
growth  in  comparison  with  my  own  :  deep  red,  primrose 
colored,  and  studding  the  tall  stalks  with  dehcate  rosettes, 
or  cup-shaped,  with  a  towering  little  pillar  within,  how  very 
beautiful  I  thought  them  !  I  was  still  gazing  at  them,  and 
thought  I  should  never  be  tired  of  admiring  their  loveli- 
ness, when  I  felt  a  hand  upon  my  shoulder,  and  my  father's 
voice  aroused  me  from  my  revery. 

"  What,  in  a  brown  study,  Millicent,  my  child  ? "  said 
he. 

"  No,  papa,"  I  answered ;  "  I  was  only  looking  at  the 
hollyhocks." 

"  For  want  of  more  lively  occupation,"  he  continued. 
"  Ah,  it  was  too  bad  to  leave  you  moping  here  by  your- 
self You  were  always  too  quiet,  too  fond  of  reflection, 
Millicent' 

"Is  not  that  a  fault  on  the  right  side,  papa  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,  my  dear  ;  you  are  so  quiet  now,  that  I 
really  quite  forget  your  presence  sometimes  :  I  never  hear 
your  voice,  or  your  footsteps.  This  really  must  be  put  a 
stop  to,  as  I  was  saying  yesterday  to  your  mamma." 

"  How,  papa  }  "  I  inquired. 

He  only  smiled,  and  said,  "  We  shall  see." 

I  assured  him  that  I  did  not  feel  dull. 

"Young  people,"  he  observed,  "always  want  compan- 
ions, and  it  is  natural  and  proper  that  they  should  have 
them,  as  I  said  to  mamma.  So,  my  dear  child,  I  have 
written  to  your  uncle,  told  him  how  the  case  stands,  and 
asked  him  to  spare  your  Cousin  Rosie  to  come  and  spend 


94  Studies  for  Stories. 

a  few  weeks  with  you,  for  as  you  have  met  already  she 
will  not  feel  hke  a  stranger  here ;  I  expect  his  reply  to- 
morrow." 

"  Thank  you,  papa,"  said  I  ;  but  O  what  a  pang  shot 
through  my  heart  at  the  mention  of  this  most  mistaken 
kindness  !  I  could  not  smile,  I  could  hardly  appear  glad  ; 
now,  I  thought,  my  rest  is  over,  and  I  am  again  to  come 
under  the  dominion  of  envy. 

My  father  told  me  that  he  expected  an  answer  the  next 
day ;  till  it  came,  I  was  in  a  fever  of  hope  that  the  invita- 
tion would  be  declined.  But  no,  my  father  handed  the 
note  to  me  :  "  Here,  Millicent,"  he  said,  "  your  uncle  says 
they  cannot  very  conveniently  spare  their  dear  child,  she 
is  so  useful  at  home,  but  they  feel  that  it  will  be  such  an 
advantage  to  her  to  have  your  companionship,  such  an  im- 
provement to  her,  that  they  mean  to  send  her.  In  fact, 
Millicent,  Rosie  has  described  you  in  such  glowing  terms 
at  home,  as  so  ladylike,  so  clever,  so  well-informed,  so 
charming,  that  they  feel  they  ought  not  to  deprive  her  of 
the  benefit  of  your  society." 

My  father  laughed,  but  was  evidently  pleased;  and  I 
could  not  help  blushing,  for  I  felt  that  I  had  taken  very 
little  pains  to  describe  Rosie,  with  her  sweetness,  sim- 
plicity, and  gentleness,  in  my  home  circle.  These  words 
in  the  letter  were  a  reproof  to  me,  also,  as  reminding  me 
of  what  I  had  observed  at  my  aunt's,  namely,  that  Rosie 
had  formed  a  very  strong  attachment  and  liking  for  me.  I 
knew  she  admired  me,  and  she  had  once  or  twice  ex- 
pressed a  kind  of  half  romantic,  half  childish  fondness  for 
dressing  me,  and  adorning  my  hair. 

She  once  said,  "  She  was  glad  she  was  my  cousin."  I 
tell  this  to  show  how  unenvious  she  was. 

"  Why  are  you  glad,  Rosie  ?  "  I  had  inquired. 

"  Oh,"  she  answered,  "  because  I  hke  to  be  with  you.  I 
love  you,  and  I  like  to  see  your  beauty  and  elegance.  I 
never  saw  any  one  like  you  before." 


My  G r eat- Aunt' s  Picture.  95. 

She  said  this  with  such  perfect  simplicity,  that  it  did  not 
sound  Hke  either  flattery  or  aflfectation. 

"  Oh,  Rosie,"  I  answered,  laughing,  "  you  must  not  pay 
such  compliments." 

"  Compliments,"  she  answered,  lifting  up  her  dimpled 
face  as  if  surprised.  "Why,  Millicent,  you  must  know 
that  you  are  beautiful ;  every  one  thinks  so,  why  should 
not  I  say  it  then  ? " 

She  had  an  affectionate  sweetness  about  her  that  most 
people  would  gladly  have  responded  to.  I  did  not,  be- 
cause this  sweet  manner,  and  everything  else  about  her 
that  was  good  and  interesting,  excited  not  my  love,  but 
my  envy. 

Rosie  arrived  by  the  railway.  She  was  full  of  joy ;  and 
when  I  went  to  meet  her  with  the  pony-carriage,  she 
expressed  the  greatest  delight  at  the  prospect  of  paying 
such  a  delightful,  visit  in  the  country,  and  being,  as  she 
artlessly  said,  with  me. 

And  now,  as  day  by  day  Rosie  and  I  were  together,  I 
felt  that,  unless  I  watched  narrowly  over  my  actions,  envy 
would  again  assert  her  dominion.  I  did  watch  ;  I  prayed 
for  assistance,  more  because  I  felt  the  pain  of  my  propen- 
sity than  the  sin  of  it.  I  did  strive  ;  and  so  long  as  I 
relaxed  not  these  efforts,  I  believe  that  I  overcame 

[Here  several  leaves  have  been  torn  from  the  manu- 
script ;  and,  though  some  fragments  of  paper  remain,  they 
only  contain  a  few  broken  sentences,  of  which  I  can  make 
nothing,  excepting  that  they  refer  to  the  lapse  of  several 
weeks,  till  the  narrative  is  continued  thus.] 

Rosie  and  I  were  practising  together  when  this  note 
arrived.  My  mother  presently  brought  it  to  us,  and  said, 
"  Here,  my  dear,  is  an  invitation  for  you  and  Rosie  to  join  a 
picnic  in  Sir  Eliot  Morton's  wood.  They  are  to  boil  the  ket- 
tle under  the  trees  ;  and  the  Mortons,  and  the  Blakes,  and 
the  Wilsons,  are  all  to  be  there.     Should  you  like  to  go  ?  " 


96  Studies  for  Stories. 

"  What  time  is  it  to  be,  mamma  ?  "  I  inquired. 

"  Not  till  five  o'clock,"  she  replied  ;  "  and  the  Mortons 
hope,  if  you  come,  you  will  bring  some  butter,  some  milk, 
and  some  fruit,  and  also  music  ;  for  in  the  evening  they 
mean  to  adjourn  to  the  house." 

Rosie  said  nothing,  but  looked  as  if  she  would  like  to  go. 

"  I  would  send  the  eatables  forward  by  the  stable-boy," 
said  mamma. 

"  I  think  we  had  better  accept,  then,"  I  answered ;  "  it 
is  a  splendid  day,  and  Rosie  would  be  sure  to  enjoy  it." 

"  Yes,  indeed,"  said  Rosie  ;  "  I  should  like  it  of  all 
things." 

It  was  such  a  beautiful  afternoon,  that,  though  the  place 
was  three  miles  off,  we  decided  to  walk  ;  for  almost  all  the 
way  was  shaded  by  elm-trees,  and  for  more  than  a  mile  we 
were  to  follow  a  foot-path  which  led  along  by  the  side  of  a 
little  glassy  river.  Rosie  was  ready  first ;  for  just  as  we 
were  about  to  set  off,  my  father  called  me  to  write "%  note 
for  him.  We  were  very  early,  and  I  thought  it  a  pity  that 
Rosie  should  be  detained  ;  so  I  asked  her  to  go  forward, 
and  wait  for  me  at  a  certain  stile,  under  an  ash-tree,  a  very 
little  way  from  the  gate  into  my  father's  grounds. 

When  the  note  was  written,  I  followed  ;  and  I  well  re- 
member my  sensations  as  I  stepped  out  into  the  delicious 
air  and  sunshine.  I  wandered  on,  and  my  thoughts  natu- 
rally recurred  to  the  events  of  the  past  week.  Self-satisfied 
and  confident,  I  congratulated  myself  that  my  uneasy  feel- 
ings towards  Rosie  were  nearly  overcome  ;  for  I  had  heard 
her  praised  without  pain,  and  had  responded  with  readi- 
ness, if  not  with  cordiality. 

I  went  slowly  on  till  a  turn  in  the  deep  glen,  through 
which  our  little  river  ran,  brought  me  to  a  place  where  it 
spread  out  into  a  wide,  clear  pool ;  a  few  small  white  water- 
lilies  were  lying  upon  it,  and  it  reflected  the  rich  blue  of 
the  sky,  excepting  where  a  steep  gravel-bank,  crowned  by 


Afy  Great-Aunt's  Picture.  97 

the  beautiful  green  ash-trees,  was  seen  in  it  I  looked  in 
as  I  stood  on  the  opposite  side  ;  something  white  was  un- 
der the  ash-tree  :  I  instantly  recognized  it  as  the  figure  of 
Rosie.  She,  too,  was  standing  looking  down  into  the  water. 
She  had  taken  off  her  bonnet,  and  every  feature  of  her 
sweet  face,  every  lock  of  her  yellow  hair,  and  every  fold  of 
her  flowing  muslin  gown  was  distinctly  mirrored  in  that 
nether  world.  She  had  some  pecuHar  ornament  on  her 
head,  —  flowers.  I  looked  again,  not  afthe  living  girl,  but 
at  her  clear  image,  and  saw  that  she  had  made  a  coronet 
of  the  water-lilies,  and  set  it  on  her  head. 

She,  as  well  as  myself,  was  silent  and  motionless ;  the 
small  water-lilies,  no  larger  than  roses,  studded  the  sunny 
water  ;  they  were  all  far  beyond  the  reach  of  her  hand  ;  her 
shawl  and  bonnet  lay  at  her  feet,  and  her  face  was  radiant 
with  its  tenderest  expression  of  peace  and  tranquiUity. 

For  a  minute  or  two  I  stood  gazing  at  her,  and  thinking 
that  a  painter  would  have  given  something  for  such  a  sight. 
First,  I  only  admired  her  and  her  delicate  coronet,  but  then 
I  began  to  consider  that  there  would  soon  be  others  to 
admire  as  well  as  myself ;  next,  to  regret  that  she  should 
possess  an  ornament  so  more  than  commonly  beautiful ; 
then  to  envy  her,  and  wish  I  had  it  instead  of  her. 

I  could  not  conceal  my  vexation  ;  and  when  I  had  walked 
round  to  her,  and  she,  turning  to  me  with  a  smile,  put  her 
finger  to  the  flowers,  and  said,  "  Are  they  not  pretty,  Milli- 
cent  ?  "  my  annoyance  was  so  great  at  the  idea  of  meeting 
all  my  young  friends  in  my  common  cottage  bonnet,  while 
she  presented  herself  crowned  Uke  some  lovely  princess, 
and  just  suiting  her  crown,  that  I  could  not  help  saying, 
under  the  faint  hope  that  she  might  be  induced  to  discard 
them,  "  They  are  pretty  enough  as  they  float  on  the  water, 
Rosie,  but  they  are  queer  things  to  wear  on  one's  head." 

"  O,  I  dried  their  stalks,"  said  Rosie,  innocently. 

"  I  see  a  drop  of  water  twinkling  at  the  yellow  tip  inside 
5  G 


98  Studies  for  Stories. 

one  of  them  now,"  I  continued,  regarding  them  with  an  air 
of  strong  disfavor. 

"  O,  I  am  so  sorry  you  don't  like  them,"  said  Rosie  ;  "  I 
thought  you  would  exclaim  about  their  beauty  the  moment 
you  saw  them." 

I  was  so  weak  and  so  envious  at  this  moment,  that  I 
could  not  help  laughing  sarcastically. 

"  But,"  said  Rosie,  "  I  am  glad  I  did  not  begin  by  asking 
you  to  wear  them?  It  was  an  amusement  to  me  to  make 
the  coronet,  and  twine  it  with  ivy-leaves.  I  thought  you 
would  look  so  well  in  it." 

"  What ! "  I  exclaimed,  biting  my  lip  with  vexation,  "  did 
you  make  it  for  me  ? " 

"  Yes,"  said  Rosie,  "  but  never  mind.  It  was  no  trouble, 
you  know ;  on  the  contrary,  a  great  deal  of  amusement, 
getting  out  the  liUes.  See,  I  have  gathered  every  one  that 
was  within  reach." 

How  much,  while  she  said  this,  the  folly  of  my  envious 
spirit  stared  me  in  the  face  ! 

If  I  had  only  expressed  the  admiration  I  felt,  or  even 
refrained  from  disparagement,  Rosie  would  have  given  me 
the  crown  which  she  had  made  on  purpose  for  me,  and 
would  have  gone  unadorned  herself  to  this  rural  feast. 

As  it  was,  I  had  completely  outwitted  myself  I  could 
not  accept  what  I  had  disapproved  of,  and  I  could  not  ask 
her  to  take  it  off  without  betraying  myself  What  base, 
what  evil  feehngs  are  these  to  describe,  perhaps  the  basest 
that  deform  our  fallen  nature  !  but  you  know  them,  you  can- 
understand  them,  you  can  follow  me  as  I  detail  their  work- 
ings. 

We  sat  silent  for  a  few  minutes  ;  we  were  still  too  early 
for  the  picnic.  I  know  not  what  Rosie  was  thinking  of. 
My  thoughts  were  made  up  of  shame,  envy,  and  ill-humor ; 
till,  suddenly,  Rosie  exclaimed,  "  O  MilHcent !  I  quite  for- 
got to  bring  my  rnusic." 


My  Great- Aunt's  Picture.  99 

A  sudden  thought  struck  me.  "  Go  back  for  it,  then,"  I 
said,  "  and  I  will  sit  here  and  wait  for  you ;  it  is  only  a 
quarter  of  a  mile,  and  we  shall  still  be  in  plenty  of  time, 
for  it  is  not  like  a  formal  party." 

Rosie  thanked  me,  and  instantly  started  off  on  her  er- 
rand, wearing  the  hly  crown  on  her  head.  Now,  I  thought, 
here  is  a  chance  for  me  ;  I  am  perfectly  determined  to  get 
some  lihes  for  a  crown  while  Rosie  is  away.  There  will  be 
time  to  plait  them,  and  I  can  easily  say,  when  she  returns, 
that  I  have  altered  my  mind,  and  think  they  look  very  tol- 
ecable.  I  can  tie  a  stick  to  the  end  of  my  parasol,  and  by 
that  means  I  shall  easily  draw  them  to  land. 

Accordingly,  I  procured  a  stick,  and  having  fastened  it, 
looked  about  for  a  favorable  place  where  they  grew  nearest 
to  the  edge  of  the  pool.  As  I  stood  on  the  bank,  the  re- 
flection of  the  blue  sky  was  so  clear  in  it,  that  even  the 
small  black  images  of  the  little  swallows,  floating  high  in 
the  air,  were  as  distinctly  visible  as  the  nearest  grasses,  or 
the  yellow  flags  that  grew  thickly  by  the  brink.  There 
was  one  change  in  it,  however,  for  a  small  white  cloud  had 
come  up,  and  its  image  lay  down  in  the  pool  hke  a  heap 
of  snow. 

I  saw  that,  small  as  it  was,  it  would  soon  obscure  the 
sun,  and  for  a  little  while  change  the  hues  of  the  whole 
landscape ;  and  I  have  a  recollection  of  thinking  at  the 
moment,  that  it  was  an  apt  emblem  of  misfortune,  coming 
up,  when  least  expected,  and  bringing  instantaneous  dim- 
ness over  the  brightest  and  most  sunny  scenes. 

But  I  did  not  think  that  the  emblem  had  any  signifi- 
cance for  me  ;  and  I  took  my  stick  and  descended  cau- 
tiously to  the  margin  of  the  glassy  pool. 


100  Studies  for  Stories, 


CHAPTER    III. 

THE     HAYMAKERS. 

AS  I  said  before,  I  descended  that  green  bank  and 
stooped  over  the  liquid  mirror;  but  had  no  sooner 
t  done  so,  than  I  started  back  with  such  sudden  surprise  as 
I  remember  to  this  day.  What  had  I  seen  there  ?  It  was 
only  for  a  moment  that  I  had  looked  down  into  these  pol- 
ished deeps,  but  the  face  they  had  presented  to  me  — 
which  seemed  to  have  come  up  to  meet  me  —  is  indelibly 
fixed  on  my  memory.  My  aunt  Beatrice  seemed  to  have 
met  my  glance  from  among  the  lily  leaves ;  so  strongly, 
so  truly  reflecting  her  picture,  that  for  the  moment  I  could 
hardly  believe  that  the  face  was  really  my  own. 

Once  again  I  had  seen  that  peculiar  expression  which 
hovered  over  it  like  a  shadow.  Once  again,  considering  it 
as  I  might  have  done  the  face  of  another  person,  the 
thought  was  forced  upon  me,  "  She  is  envious  of  me." 

I  stood  for  a  moment  diverted  from  my  purpose ;  but 
upon  consideration,  this  curious  likeness  interested  me, 
and,  stooping  over  the  water,  I  again  leaned  forward  to 
meet  my  own  face  and  look  at  it  well. 

Yes,  it  leaned  towards  me,  in  all  things  a  duphcate  of 
the  face  in  the  frame  ;  the  dark  eyes  a  little  anxious,  a  little 
reflective ;  the  long  hair  drooping  forward  to  shadow  the 
cheeks  ;  the  lip  slightly  pouting,  as  brooding  over  feelings 
not  altogether  free  from  pain. 

Ah,  my  Aunt  Beatrice,  if  that  had  been  truly  your  face 
looking  up  at  me,  with  the  azure  of  a  reflected  sky  behind 
you,  with  your  white  dress  gathered  about  your  throat,  and 


My  Great-Aimf s  Picture.  loi 

your  two  hands  holding  back  the  hair  which  nearly  touched 
the  water ;  if  that  had  truly  been  your  face,  I,  not  being 
blinded  by  self-love,  might  have  taken  \varning  by  its  ex- 
pression, instead  of  softening  its  meaning,  and  trying  to 
explain  it  away. 

It  was  base  and  bitter  envy  that  overshadowed  it,  and 
this  painful  image  over  which  it  brooded  was  the  image 
of  a  young  girl  in  whose  heart  such  shadows  were  never 
found,  —  a  girl  who  loved  you,  and  w^hom  all  but  you  must 
needs  have  loved  ;  but  whose  remembered  sweetness, 
though  you  thought  on  it  .then,  was  an  example  that  you 
would  not  foUow,  and  a  warning  that  you  threw  away. 

So  I  arose  from  my  contemplation,  and  taking  my  long 
stick  I  tried  very  hard  to  draw  the  lilies  to  land ;  but  one 
after  the  other,  as  I  succeeded  \v  drawing  it  so  close  as  to 
be  almost  within  reach  of  my  md,  would  slip  from  my 
hold,  dip  under  the  water,  and  reappear  in  its  old  place. 

I  thought  I  should  be  more  successful  on  the  other  side 
of  the  pool,  where  the  water  was  deeper,  so  I  went  round ; 
and  I  remember  seeing  some  haymakers  in  a  field  not  far 
oflf,  and  wishing  I  had  one  of  their  rakes  ;  for  so  much  time 
had  already  been  wasted  in  fruitless  attempts,  that  I  be- 
gan to  fear  Rosie  would  return  before  I  had  secured  the 
flowers  ;  and,  in  the  plenitude  of  my  folly,  I  hoped  she 
might  delay  to  come. 

Happy  indeed  it  was  for  me  that  such  wishes  are  made 
in  vain.     But  it  is  needless  to  anticipate. 

I  found  a  place  where  I  thought  the  lilies  grew  rather 
closer  to  the  edge  ;  but  the  grass  was  slippery,  and  the  soil 
was  damp.  I  came. near  ;  I  drew  one  lily  close  to  land.  An- 
other moment  and  I  had  cautiously  stooped  for  it ;  my 
hand  grasped  it.  I  rose  again.  My  feet  felt  suddenly 
cold,  I  cast  a  hurried  glance  downward,  and  found  to  my 
indescribable  terror,  that  the  tuft  of  grass  on  which  I  was 
standing  had  given  way,  and  was  sliding  down  the  steep 


102  Studies  for  Stories. 

descent  with  me  into  the  water.  Not  rapidly.  My  impres- 
sion is  (perhaps  through  the  vivid  distinctness  of  that  fear- 
ful instant),  that  I  went  down  somewhat  slowly  into  the 
water.  I  tried  to  throw  myself  backwards  ;  but  it  was  too 
late,  and  with  my  feet  still  on  that  clump  of  grass,  I  went 
down  on  the  clay,  till  the  water  was  first  over  my  knees, 
then  over  my  shoulders,  then  over  my  head.  Yet,  such 
was  the  wonderful  manner  in  which  this  descent,  to  appar- 
ently inevitable  death,  seemed  to  sharpen  the  faculties  of 
life  to  unnatural  power,  and  lengthen  out  moments  of  time, 
that  I  distinctly  heard  the  washing  and  bubbling  of  the 
water  as  it  closed  me  in.  I  distinctly  saw  the  rocking  of 
the  lilies  as  the  watery  rings  spread  over  the  surface  ;  and 
I  was  aware,  when  I  looked  at  the  trees  which  overshad- 
owed my  father's  house,  that  I  probably  saw  them  for  the 
last  time. 

These  sensations  were  vivid  and  strong  ;  but  the  instant 
I  was  submerged,  I  ceased  to  think,  and  became  conscious 
of  an  overpowering  weight  on  my  head. 

I  do  not  know  how  long  this  lasted,  I  know  nothing  till 
I  was  breathing  again,  up  in  the  air  and  light,  and  fighting 
for  life  among  the  rocking  lilies.  Every  breath  was  a 
shriek,  and  in  mortal  terror,  lest  I  must  soon  go  down 
again  like  a  stone,  I  cried  out,  and  struggled  vainly  to 
reach  the  longed-for  bank,  which  I  saw  almost  close  at 
hand,  when  I  beheld  a  white  figure  flying  towards  me.  It 
was  close  —  it  had  flung  itself  down  on  the  bank,  and 
grasped  with  one  hand  the  leaves  of  some  yellow  flags, 
that  providentially  grew  there  ;  with  the  other  it  had  seized 
my  hair,  as  I  was  again  going  down  ;  and  in  an  instant, 
perhaps  less,  my  face  was  above  water,  and  I  heard  Rosie, 
who  was  faint  and  panting  with  swift  running  ;  I  heard  her 
beseeching  me  not  to  struggle,  and  I  S9,w  that,  as  she  lay 
on  the  brink,  a  very  little  thing  would  drag  her  in.  But  I 
could  not  obey  her.     I  believe  that  at  first  I  did  not  under- 


My  Great- Aunt's  Picture.  103 

stand  her.  The  water  gurgled  in  my  ears,  and  the  trailing 
water-weeds  almost  covered  my  face,  I  again  struggled, 
and  then  she  cried  out,  adding  her  call  for  help  to  my  dis- 
tracted voice,  and  exclaimed  in  despairing  tones,  "  O  my 
darling,  my  darling,  be  still ;  there  are  only  these  flag- 
leaves  to  hold  me  up,  and  some  of  them  are  breaking  away. 
Millicent,  I  cannot  drag  you  out ;  but  I  can  hold  you  up  till 
help  comes.  The  haymakers  have  heard  us  ;  they  are 
coming  ;  we  shall  soon  be  safe,  —  only  be  still." 

I  was  still ;  sufficient  sense  had  returned  to  me  for  that. 
I  held  her  arm  with  my  cold  hands.  I  heard  the  cracking 
rustle  of  the  flag-leaves,  as  one  after  the  other  they  gave 
way.  I  saw  Rosie's  white  face-  grow  fixed  as  stone  with 
fear,,  and  just  as  I  became  conscious  of  shouts  and  encour- 
aging cries  near  at  hand,  at  that  same  instant  Rosie  made 
a  murmur  of  despair  ;  I  felt  her  grasp  of  me  tighten  ;  but 
the  last  of  the  flag-leaves  broke  away,  and  two  instead  of 
one  went  down  under  the  rocking  lilies. 

It  has  been  well  said,  that  "  time  measures  not  the  tides 
of  soul ; "  that  which  had  seemed  to  me  to  include  cycles 
of  life  and  suffering  must  all  have  been  enacted  in  a  very 
short  space  indeed.  We  went  down  again  ;  but  the  time 
during  which  she  had  held  me  up  had  saved  my  life.  Per- 
haps, four  or  five  minutes  was  all  that  it  comprised,  then 
we  went  down  ;  and  for  what  a  purpose  had  I  brought  both 
our  lives  in  peril ! 

I  did  not  think  of  that :  again  I  felt  that  weight  upon  my 
head,  then  I  became  unconscious,  and  then  there  was  a 
period,  long  or  short  I  know  not,  when  I  heard  dimly ; 
then  was  aware  of  light  before  my  eyes,  then  could  open 
them  and  look  about  me. 

I  was  lying  on  my  back  under- some  green  trees  ;  some 
of  the  haymakers,  healthy,  sunburnt  women,  were  standing 
about  me.  I  looked  up  into  the  sky,  and  saw  swallows  fly- 
ing about,  and  I  saw  a  white  cloud. 


104  Studies  for  Stories. 

"  Lord  be  praised,"  said  one  of  the  women  ;  "  I  thought 
she  was  drowned." 

"  Give  her  air,"  said  another  voice  ;  "  she  don't  know 
where  she  is  yet ;  but,  bless  you,  there  's  no  fear  of  her 
being  drowned,  she  was  not  a  minute,  not  half  a  minute, " 
under  water.  It  was  nought  but  fright  made  her  swoon 
off." 

I  saw  another  woman  approach  me,  unfasten  my  hair, 
and  dry  it  with  her  apron. 

.  I  knew  I  was  safe  ;  but  where  was  Rosie  ?  I  tried  to 
speak,  but  could  not ;  and  I  tried  to  move,  but  was  unable 
to  stir,  while  all  this  time  the  women  talked  on  among 
themselves,  under  the  impression  that  I  was  not  able  yet 
to  understand  them. 

"  Which  of  them  was  it  that  took  her  out  ?  "  said  one. 

A  laboring  man's  name  was  mentioned.  "  And  a  lucky 
thing  for  him,"  said  the  first  speaker  ;  "  as  good  as  a  year's 
rent,  I  '11  be  bound." 

"  As  good  as  ten  pound,"  said  another  ;  "let  the  Squire 
alone  for  that." 

"  Lie  still,  my  pretty  miss,"  said  the  woman  who  was  dry- 
ing my  hair ;  "  Missis  and  the  Squire  are  sent  for  ;  they  '11  be 
here  directly  ;  don't  be  frightened."  I  made  another  effort 
to  rise,  and  she  stooped  towards  me,  lifted  me  up,  and  sup- 
ported me  in  her  strong  motherly  arms.  Then  I  could  see 
the  pool ;  O  how  eagerly  I  gazed  at  it.  It  was  still  al- 
ready as  glass,  —  as  still  as  if  nothing  had  ever  disturbed 
its  serenity !  but  O,  terrible  sight  to  me,  who  well  knew 
what  it  meant,  —  in  the  very  centre  of  it  lay  floating  the 
crown  of  lilies  ! 

O,  when  I  saw  it  floating,  and  beUeved  that  Rosie's  yel- 
low locks  lay  under  it,  >my  despair  was  too  great  for  my 
frame :  I  fainted,  and  now  I  believe  that  some  time  did 
pass,"  though  I  was  unconscious  of  it. 

I  opened  my  eyes  as  from  a  troubled  dream  ;  my  parents 


My  Great- Aunfs  Picture.  105 

and  some  of  our  servants  were  standing  by  me  ;  some  peo- 
ple were  preparing  to  lift  me  up  and  carry  me  away ;  but  I 
cried  out  that  I  would  not  go,  I  must  see  Rosie  ;  I  wanted 
to  know  what  had  become  of  Rosie. 

Gaining  strength  through  the  energy  of  my  desire,  I  re- 
leased myself  from  them,  and  urged  my  steps  towards  the 
water.  The  lily  crown  was  floating  slowly,  slowly  down 
the  river,  but  I  saw  a  group  of  people  standing  silently,  as 
others  had  stood  about  me. 

I  held  out  my  arms  to  my  father,  for  strength  failed,  and 
he  carried  me  towards  them,  set  me  on  my  feet,  and  they 
divided  and  let  me  in. 

Rosie  was  lying  on  the  grass  ;  her  face  was  nearly  hid- 
den by  her  hair.  She  was  crownless  now  ;  one  of  her  arms 
lay  above  her  head,  and  her  cold  white  hand  still  grasped 
the  long  green  flag-leaves  ;  drops  of  water  trickled  from 
them,  and  from  her  white  clothing  and  disordered  hair.  I 
stood,  I  looked,  and  in  my  despair  I  uttered  no  lamenta- 
tion, but  I  thought  of  that  great  multitude  above  with  palms 
in  their  hands,  and  I  sunk  upon  my  face  on  the  grass,  cry- 
ing out  that  Rosie  was  dead,  and  that  I  had  been  the 
cause  of  it. 

I  do  not  know  all  that  followed  ;  reason  assures  me  that 
.  the  time  was  short,  though  memory  presents  it  as  long. 

Attempts  were  made  to  calm  me,  but  I  could  not  attend 
to  entreaties  or  commands  ;  my  mind  was  dark,  my  senses 
were  confused,  and  delusive  phantoms  seemed  to  float  be- 
fore me  wherever  I  turned.  My  Aunt  Beatrice  —  not  a 
picture,  but  a  living,  breathing  creation  —  seemed  to  rise 
up  out  of  the  water  and  follow  my  wandering  eyes,  and, 
hanging  suspended  over  Rosie's  head,  I  thought  I  saw  the 
crown  of  lilies. 

I  remember  that  some  people  took  her  up  and  carried 
her  away,  and  that  they  gently  tried  to  draw  the  leaves 
from  her  hand,  but  could  not ;   but  I  remember  nothing 

r  * 


io6  Studies  for  Stories. 

of  how  I  was  taken  home,  nor  can  I  recall  anything  that 
happened,  till,  after  a  very  long  sleep,  or  more  probably  a 
stupor  brought  on  by  narcotics,  I  opened  my  eyes  in  my 
own  chamber. 

For  a  while  I  felt  tranquil,  somewhat  confused,  and 
though  aware  that  something  unusual  had  happened,  not 
willing,  or  perhaps  not  able,  to  consider  what  it  was. 

I  turned  on  my  pillow,  and  I  remember  experiencing  a 
sensation  of  surprise  at  finding  that  the  person  who  sat 
watching  me  in  the  dusk  was  not  my  mother,  but  an  old 
servant.  She  was  fanning  me.  My  windows  were  thrown 
open,  for  the  night  was  exceedingly  sultry.  I  looked  out 
and  saw  the  red  summer  lightning  playing  between  some 
ragged  clouds,  and  said  to  the  maid,  "  Mary,  has  there  been 
a  storm  ? " 

"  Yes,  ma'am,"  she  answered,  "  a  very  awful  storm  ; "  and 
she  continued  to  fan  me. 

After  a  while  I  was  obliged  to  go  to  sleep  again ;  but  it 
was  a  confused  and  wretched  sleep,  and  towards  the  close 
of  it  I  became  conscious  that  some  one  was  singing.  I 
awoke  in  a  fright,  and  though  day  had  not  yet  dawned,  I 
knew  that  I  had  been  some  hours  asleep.  My  windows 
were  closed,  and  the  servant,  who  still  sat  by  me,  had  let  her 
hands  drop  on  her  knee,  and  was  slumbering.  A  shaded 
lamp  was  burning  in  one  corner.  I  sat  up,  and  by  its  light 
looked  about  me.  On  the  table  lay  some  work  that  I  had 
placed  there  when  I  came  up  stairs  to  dress.  I  saw  it, 
and  in  an  instant  the  events  of  the  day  rushed  back  upon 
my  recollection,  and  all  the  terrors  of  that  doubt  respecting 
Rosie. 

I  sprang  out  of  bed,  threw. on  my  dressing-gown,  and 
went  out  into  the  passage,  bent  upon  entering  Rosie's  room, 
and  satisfying  myself 

It  was  dark,  but  I  groped  my  way  on  to  her  door,  which 
was  shut.     I  opened  it  cautiously,  no  light  was  burning  ; 


My  Great- Aunt' s  Picture.  107 

the  window-shutters  had  never  been  closed,  and  sufficient 
light  came  in  from  the  shining  of  the  crescent  moon  to 
show  me  that  the  curtains  were  not  drawn,  and  that  no  one 
was  sleeping  in  her  bed. 

I  cannot  describe  what  I  felt,  as,  half-fainting  with  the 
sickness  of  hope  deferred,  I  turned  from  this  empty  room. 
I  was  wandering  down  the  passage,  when  I  heard  voices 
below  on  the  stairs.  I  went  to  the  landing,  and,  leaning 
over  the  banisters,  saw  my  father  standing,  and  our  usual 
physician  with  him.  My  father  was  leaning  in  an  attitude 
of  despondency  against  the  balustrade.  I  heard  the  physi- 
cian's soothing  voice,  — 

"  But  it  is  at  least"  a  blessing  that  there  is  nothing  to  fear 
for  your  daughter." 

My  father  sighed,  and  I  strained  my  senses  to  catch 
what  followed. 

"  Nothing  to  fear  for  my  daughter,"  said  he  ;  "  but  how 
much  to  hope  for  my  niece  ? " 

"  She  has  youth  on  her  side." 

Then  Rosie  lived.  There  was  comfort  in  that,  though 
these  sentences  showed  that  she  was  in  danger.  The  hall 
lamp  was  still  burning,  and  I  could  distinctly  see  the  anx- 
ious expression  of  my  father's  face. 

"  You  think,  then,"  he  said,  "  that  she  may  survive  ?  " 

The  physician  hesitated. 

"When  fever  comes  on  with  such  fearful  rapidity,  we 
cannot  pronounce  an  opinion,"  he  rephed ;  "  there  is  al- 
ways great  danger." 

I  stayed  to  hear  no  more  ;  my  eyes  were  blinded  with 
tears ;  but  as  they  fell  down  my  cheeks  I  saw  light  from 
under  a  bedroom  door,  and  I  urged  my  way  towards  it, 
opened  it  and  entered. 

Ah,  my  Httle  Rosie,  my  once  envied  and  now  beloved, 
inexpressibly  beloved  cousin,,  shall  I  ever  forget  the  an- 
•  guish  of  that  moment  ?  She  was  sitting  up  in  bed  and 
singing. 


I08  Studies  for  Stories. 

Two  people  sat  beside  her.  They  gently  laid  her  down 
again;  but  again  she  rose.  Her  cap  had  been  taken  off; 
her  long  yellow  hair  streamed  over  her  shoulders,  for  the 
delirium  of  fever  gleamed  in  her  blue  eyes,  and  the  color 
was  high  in  her  cheeks.  First  she  talked  incoherently, 
then  again  she  sang,  Wild,  but  inexpressibly  sweet  were 
those  unconscious  songs.  My  mother  wept  over  her ;  but 
she  took  no  notice,  and  the  attendants  soothed  and  en- 
treated, but  she  did  not  hear  them.  Still,  in  the  silence  of 
that  sultry  night,. her  trembling  voice  sounded  through  the 
desolate  house,  and  went  out  among  the  branches  of  the 
trees,  starthng  the  birds  from  their  slumbers. 


My  Great- Aunt's  Picture.  109 


CHAPTER    IV. 

CONCLUSION. 

I  LISTENED,  and  my  heart  died  within  me,  for  I  per- 
ceived that  the  sudden  shock  of  that  perilous  morning 
—  though  I  had  been  permitted  to  rise  up  from  it  httle  the 
worse  —  had  prostrated  my  gentle  and  lovely  cousin.  O, 
how  precious  she  was  to  me  now  !  With  what  anguish  of 
heart  I  reflected  on  her  generous  self-devotion  ;  with  what 
bitter  tears  of  useless  regret  I  lamented  the  paltry  feelings 
which  had  cost  us  both  so  dear ! 

I  stood  till  the  physician  returned  to  her  room,  and  then 
I  went  back  to  my  own,  threw  myself  on  my  bed^  and  re- 
pented. How  heart-sickening  are  the  tears  of  repentance 
when  they  are  shed  for  those  hours  which  are  past  recall ! 
Anything  else  but  this  I  thought  I  could  have  borne ;  but 
there  was  no  hope,  or  a  very  faint  hope,  that  I  should  ever 
be  able  even  to  acknowledge  my  fault  to  Rosie,  and  so 
relieve  my  heart  of  some  of  this  intolerable  pressure  ;  much 
less  that  I  should  ever  be  able  to  make  any  reparation,  by 
future  kindness,  for  my  past  grudging  and  envious  behav- 
ior. From  the  nature  of  things  I  could  never  repay  her ; 
she  had  saved  my  life,  snatched  me  back  at  the  peril  of 
her  own,  when  I  was  about  to  fall  a  prey  to  my  demon 
mistress,  —  Envy. 

I  lay  and  wept ;  a  sharp  distress  will  drive  many  a  hard 
heart  to  the  only  sure  refuge.  As  I  continued  to  mourn 
during  that  desolate  night,  I  perceived  my  sin  against  God 
far  more  forcibly  than  I  had  done  hitherto ;  yet,  though 
my  offence  I  knew  was  against  Him,  to  Him  I  was  driven 


I  lo  Studies  for  Stones. 

for  refuge.  I  besought  Him  to  spare  the  life  of  my  cousin, 
and  to  pardon  the  sin  which  had  endangered  it.  At  length, 
but  not  till  morning  dawned,  that  sweet  and  broken  sing- 
ing became  silent,  and  exhausted  and  weak,  I  fell  asleep. 

About  eight  o'clock  I  was  awoke  by  some  one  entering 
my  room  :  it  was  my  mother.  My  first  cry  was  an  entreaty 
that  she  would  tell  me  of  Rosie,  She  appeared  depressed 
and  utterly  fatigued  with  watching  and  anxiety;  she  sat 
down,  and  said  she  hoped  I  would  be  calm,  and  not  give 
my  parents  the  distress  of  seeing  us  both  very  ill.  Rosie 
was  much  the  same,  —  a  little  quieter,  and  I  was  on  no 
account  to  enter  her  room.  She  was  to  be  kept  nearly  in 
the  dark,  and  as  tranquil  as 'possible. 

She  presently  left  me,  and  returned  with  the  physician, 
who,  finding  me  exhausted  with  weeping,  and  otherwise 
suffering  from  the  effects  of  the  shock,  desired  that  I  should 
be  dressed  and  taken  out  into  the  fresh  air,  and  that  a 
couch  should  be  set  for  me  under  the  trees.  I  felt  that 
this  was  done  partly  that  I  might  not  hear  Rosie's  voice, 
but  I  submitted,  knowing  how  much  sorrow  tliere  was  in 
the  household,  and  desiring  to  add  to  it  no  more  than  I 
could  help.  I  sat  out  of  doors  under  the  trees,  with  the 
splendor  of  the  green  lawn  refreshed  by  thunder  showers 
stretching  away  before  me,  and  all  the  gay  flowers,  the  tall 
hollyhocks,  the  dahlias,  and  the  rich  clustering  autumn 
roses  smiling  upon  me.  I  felt  my  heart  strangely  out  of 
unison  with  the  freshness,  gayety,  and  peace  of  nature  ; 
but  I  acknowledged  that  I  did  not  deserve  to  be  with 
Rosie,  and  I  felt  the  truth  of  what  they  had  said,  that  no 
one's  presence  was  so  .likely  to  excite  her  as  mine. 

O  what  a  long  day  was  that,  and  how  very  long  were 
those  which  followed;  never  do  I  remember  days  of  such 
unequalled  splendor,  such  cloudless  serenity,  and  I  was 
kept  out  in  them  from  morning  to  night,  with  my  father  or 
that  old  servant  for  companionship.     But  from  my  place 


My  Great-Aunt's  Picture.  in 

under  the  trees,  though  I  could  hear  nothing,  I  could  still 
watch  the  house.  I  could  see  the  evidences,  now  and 
then,  of  hurry  and  confusion,  figures  rapidly  passing  the 
staircase  window,  servants  lingering  in  the  hall  watching 
for  the  doctor,  that  he  might  not  be  detained  an  instant  at 
the  door.  I  knew  that  the  chance  for  Rosie's  life  was 
small,  and  I  believed  that  a  very  few  more  days  of  such 
suffering  as  I  was  then  enduring  would  prostrate  me  also. 
Everything  that  kindness  could  suggest  or  love  invent  was 
said  to  soothe  me,  everything  but  the  one  thing  I  pined  to 
have,  —  the  assurance  that  Rosie  was  better. 

But  on  the  third  day  of  this  sojourn  out  of  doors,  I  hap- 
pened for  a  time  to  be  left  alorfe,  and  I  could  not  restrain 
myself,  I  must  needs  go  into  the  house  ;  and  there,  as  I 
wandered  about  restlessly  in  the  lower  rooms,  I  observed 
a  peculiar  appearance  of  suspense  in  those  whom  I  met. 
They  were  so  much  absorbed  that  they  scarcely  noticed 
my  presence,  and  I  asked  no  questions  (for  nothing  defi- 
nite was  ever  told  me  in  reply),  but  I  waited  till  the 
physician  came  to  pay  his  evening  visit,  and  then  I  sat 
down  on  the  lowest  of  the  stairs,  and  waited  till  he  should 
descend. 

I  leaned  my  head  against  the  balusters,  for  I  was  weak. 
It  was  just  about  the  time  of  day,  as  I  remembered,  that 
we  had  both  been  brought  home.  What  days  of  misery  to 
me,  and  suffering  to  her,  had  been  the  three  which  had  fol- 
lowed !  The  physician  at  length  came  (iown.  He  hfted 
me  up,  and  gave  me  his  arm  into  the  parlor.  Then  he  told 
me  that  the  fever  had  left  Rosie.  "Twenty-four  hours 
more,  with  a  pulse  at  such  a  height,"  he  said,  "  and  her 
case  would  have  been  past  hope,  but  now,  with  extreme 
care,  if  there  is  no  relapse,  I  trust  that,  weak  as  she  is,  she 
may  yet  be  raised." 

I  was  very  thankful,  but  that  thankfulness  was  chastened 
by  much  fear  :   that  there  still  was  danger  was  not  con- 


112  Studies  for  Stories. 

cealed  from  me,  and  when  I  was  permitted  that  night  to  go 
into  Rosie's  chamber,  and  look  upon  her  while  she  slept,  I 
wondered  that  anything  so  frail,  so  faint,  so  deathly,  could 
be  recalled  to  the  land  of  the  living  ;  but  I  had  been  as- 
sured that  there  was  hope,  and  I  endeavored  not  to  de- 
spond. 

Three  days  had  so  completely  changed  that  sweet  and 
dimpled  face,  that  no  one  could  possibly  have  recognized 
it.  Her  hair  had  been  cut  away,  and  the  unshaded  cheeks 
were  visible  in  all  their  sunken  whiteness,  and  the  wasted 
hands  lay  in  such  a  hush  of  repose,  or  rather  of  exhaustion, 
that  but  for  the  evidence  that  she  breathed  I  could  not  have 
thought  that  she  was  still  of  tWs  world.  But  I  looked  and 
mourned  ;  envy  had  been  killed  by  love  ;  but  oh  !  amid 
what  bitter  pangs  of  self-reproach,  what  anguish  of  re- 
morse this  love  had  grown  ! 

It  was  more  than  a  week  before  I  was  permitted  to  see 
her  in  her  waking  moments,  but  I  cannot  describe  our 
meeting,  full  as  it  was  on  one  side  with  the  keenest  dis- 
tress, and  on  both  with  the  strongest  affection.  After  that 
I  was  permitted  to  be  constantly  Avith  her,  nursing  and  at- 
tending on  her  during  her  tedious  recovery ;  and  then  it 
was  that  I  solemnly  resolved  she  should  not  love  me,  being 
in  ignorance  of  my  besetting  fault,  but  that  I  would  tell 
her  of  it  both  for  the  sake  of  my  peace,  and  that  she  might 
assist  me  in  py  efforts  towards  a  cure,  for  I  had  become 
more  humble  now  ;  and  fearful  as  was  the  lesson  that  I  had 
received,  I  still  dreaded  a  relapse. 

Therefore,  when  Rosie  first  came  down  stairs,  and  lay  on 
the  sofa  in  the  little  morning-room,  I  proceeded  to  finish 
a  drawing  which  had  been  long  on  the  easel,  and  on  which 
I  had  bestowed  more  than  ordinary  thought  and  pains. 
There  was  a  clear  pool  of  water  in  the  middle  of  my  pic- 
ture, a  gravel  bank  rose  from  it  on  one  side,  and  a  green 
ash-tree  overhung  it ;  there  was  a  blue  sky  above,  with 


My  Great-Aunt's  Picture.  113 

one  white  cloud  rising  up  out  of  the  west  ;  there  were 
some  yellow  flags  growing  by  the  margin  of  the  pool,  and 
in  the  centre  of  it  floated  a  lily  crown.  As  Rosie  lay  on 
the  sofa,  her  eyes  were  soon  attracted  to  this  little  land- 
scape. I  saw  instantly  that  she  recognized  it,  and  that 
her  regards  lingered  over  it  with  a  kind  of  tranquil  joy. 

What  a  happy  scene  it  was  for  her  to  recollect !  What 
a  gracious  reward  had  been  vouchsafed  to  her  to  repay  her 
for  her  pain,  even  the  rescuing  of  a  human  Ufe,  —  the  Ufe 
of  one  who  was  extremely  dear  to  her  !  But  what  a  pain- 
ful scene  it  was  for  me  !  I  intended  to  copy  it  for  her,  that 
she  might  continue  to  derive  pleasure  from  it,  and  to  keep 
the  original  that  it  might  be  a  warning  to  me.  I  let  her 
gaze  at  it,  and  when  she  was  satisfied,  —  pleased  that  I 
should  have  made' it,  but  so  weak,  so  touched  and  troubled 
at  the  sight  of  it  that  her  eyes  were  dim  with  tears,  —  I 
covered  it,  and  approaching  her  couch,  told  her  that  I  had 
something  to  say  to  her.  I  knew  she  would  still  love  me, 
and  that  she  would  feel  neither  resentment  nor  disbelief,  so 
I  knelt  by  her,  and  with  my  arm  supporting  her,  and  her 
cheek  leaning  against  mine,  I  told  her  all  that  I  have  told 
to  you. 

And  when  I  had  done,  true  to  the  lovely  simplicity  of. 
her  character,  she  did  not  attempt  to  palliate,  or  even  to 
excuse.  She  listened  with  wonder,  with  pity,  with  sympa- 
thizing love.  She  kissed  me  many  times,  but  it  was  evi- 
dently a  mystery  to  her ;  and  then  she  reminded  me  that 
God  could  forgive  us  all  our  sins,  and  she  proposed  that 
we  should  pray  for  the  forgiveness  of  ours.  Sweet,  simple 
Rosie  !  she  beheved  that  I  had  been  envious  because  I 
had  told  her  so ;  she  knew  in  theory  that  envy  was  a 
wicked  thing,  but  so  little  had  she  ever  been  tempted  to 
such  a  sin,  that  she  scarcely  knew  either  the  blackness  or 
the  misery  of  it.  And  when  she  had  paused  awhile  over 
my  narration,  and  caressed  me  with  all  her  own  simplicity 

H 


1 14  Studies  for  Stories. 

and  tenderness,  she  said,  "  Ah,  MilHcent,  if  you  had  told 
me  that  you  were  vain  I  could  easily  have  believed  you, 
but  God  has  made  you  so  rich,  and  so  beautiful,  and  so 
much  beloved,  that  I  can  scarcely  understand  what  there 
is  for  you  to  envy." 

I  felt  the  truth  of  what  she  said.  God  had  placed  me 
in  the  best  and  happiest  part  of  this  his  beautiful  world. 
I  was  young,  healthy,  cared  for,  and  sometimes,  even  in 
my  most  envious  days,  I  had  seriously  considered  whether 
there  was  any  person  with  whom,  on  the  whole,  I  could 
change  with  advantage,  and  I  had  decided  that  I  had  not 
yet  met  with  such  a  person.  And  yet,  notwithstanding 
this  dehberate  decision,  I  had  basely  envied  almost  every 
one  with  whom  I  came  into  contact  the  brighter  part  of 
her  less  favored  lot. 

I  rose  from  my  cousin's  side,  feehng  hghter  at  heart  for 
her  sincere  pity  and  simple-minded,  generous  forgiveness. 
I  felt  that  a  great  fault  could  not  be  eradicated  at  once, 
but  I  believed  and  knew  that  of  Rosie,  at  least,  I  never 
could  be  envious  again.  And  why  ?  Because  I  loved  her 
so  heartily,  that  all  her  joys,  her  advantages,  her  hopes, 
had  become  mine.  The  great  commandment  offers  the 
only  solution  of  that  problem  which  afflicts  the  envious. 
"  How  shall  I  be  cured  ? "  we  ask ;  it  answers,  "  Thou  shalt 
love  thy  neighbor  as  thyself^'' 

But  can  love  be  learned?  Can  it  be  fostered,  cultivated, 
indulged  .'*  Can  I  make  myself  love  my  neighbor  ?  Let 
us  ask  another  question  which  may  help  us  to  the  answer 
of  this.  Can  hatred  be  learned?  Can  it  be  encouraged, 
cherished  ?  Can  I  make  myself  hate  my  neighbor  ?  Yes. 
How  can  I  do  this  ?  I  can  do  it  by  reflecting  on  the  least 
agreeable  parts  of  his  character  to  the  exclusion  of  his 
better  qualities ;  I  can  impute  bad  motives  to  his  indiffer- 
ent actions  ;  I  can  disparage  his  virtues  and  fail  to  excuse 
his  faults  ;  I  can  decline,  in  his  case,  to  admit  the  strength 


My  Great-Aunt's  Picture.  115 

of  temptation ;  I  can  treasure  up  and  dwell  on  imaginary 
slights  or  little  affronts  that  he  may  have  shown  me,  till 
they  exasperate  me ;  I  can  tell  others  of  his  behavior, 
dwelling  always  on  its  darkest  side,  till  it  appears  all  the 
darker  by  frequent  repetition. 

And  can  I  make  myself  envy  my  neighbor  ?  Yes,  I  can. 
I  can  do  it  by  constantly  comparing  him  with  myself  on 
those  points,  and  those  only,  where  he  has  the  advantage, 
by  considering  that  those  advantages  are  precisely  such  as 
I  want  in  order  to  make  me  happy,  by  exaggerating  their 
importance,*  and  by  dwelling  so  much  on  the  lot  of  others 
that  I  neglect  the  means  of  improving  my  own ;  and  by 
sitting  idle,  brooding  over  my  hard  case,  and  mourning 
because  I  see  no  way  for  making  myself  useful,  beloved, 
or  admired,  while  others  with  no  better  opportunities  or 
talents,  are  up  and  doing  those  very  things  which,  but  that 
I  am  absorbed  in  envying  them,  I  could  do  just  as  well. 

By  an  opposite  course  I  can  foster,  cultivate,  and  en- 
courage affection.  This,  it  is  granted,  must  be  difficult  at 
first,  too  difficult  indeed  for  any  but  those  who  seek  Divine 
assistance. 

But  I  must  proceed.  Rosie  stayed  with  me  till  she  had 
quite  recovered  her  health,  and  then  went  home,  carrying 
with  her  the  blessings  and  the  love  of  all  our  household. 
Shortly  afterwards,  my  sisters  returned,  and  I,  knowing 
what  was  in  my  own  heart,  resolved  that  by  God's  help,  I 
would  never,  while  I  lived,  consider  my  fault  as  cured  ;  but 
watch  over  it  as  over  a  fire  subdued,  but  not  extinguished, 
and  which  any  passing  wind  will  fan  once  niore  into  a 
flame.  My  watch  has  now  been  long,  and  partly  lest  I 
should  slumber  at  my  post  of  watcher,  and  partly  that  my 
example  may  be  a  warning  to  you,  I  have  set  myself  the 
task  of  penning  these  pages. 

But,  you  will  naturally  ask,  how  did  I  discover  that  you 
were  the  bond-slave  of  envy  ! 


1 1.6  Studies  for  Stories. 

We  are  so  anxious  naturally  to  conceal  this  fault,  and  it 
is  one  that  it  would  be  such  an  offence  to  accuse  one  of, 
that,  though  there  are  few  of  us  to  whom  it  has  not  been 
said,  or  intimated  by  friends  or  acquaintances,  "  You  have 
a  high  opinion  of  yourself";  or,  "You  are  exaggerating 
this  story  " ;  or,  "  You  should  not  be  so  disdainful  of  your 
inferiors  "  ;  or,  "  You  are  not  very  industrious  "  ;  or,  "  You 
are  hasty  "  ;  or,  "  You  are  inconsiderate  "  ;  yet,  to  none  of 
us,  perhaps,  has  it  ever  been  said,  "  I  perceive  that  you  are 
envious." 

This  delicacy  is  a  disadvantage  to  us  ;  that  which  is  not 
mentioned  wo.  think  to  be  unknown.  It  may  certainly  be 
concealed  from  others  for  a  time,  but  the  essence  of  envy 
arises  and  depends  on  comparison  ;  once  institute  a  com- 
parison in  the  presence  of  the  envious,  and  unless  they  are 
on  their  guard,  it  is  sure  to  be  betrayed.  As  when  an 
acquaintance  of  yours  praised  Mary's  singing  in  your 
presence,  —  Mary,  whom  you  call  your  friend,  —  and  you 
replied,  "  O  yes,  she  sings  beautifully,  but  really  it  would 
be  a  disgrace  if  she  did  not." 

"  How  so  ?"  said  your  acquaintance. 

"  O,"  you  answered,  "  because  she  is  always  practising  ; 
indeed,  I  wonder  how  she  can  make  it  consistent  with 
other  duties  ;  besides,  she  has  been  so  well  and  so  thor- 
oughly taught ;  no  pains  have  been  spared  with  her  ;  "  and 
you  added,  in  the  tone  of  an  injured  person,  "  It  would  be 
absurd  to  expect  those  who  have  enjoyed  no  such  advan- 
tages to  equal  her  ;  it  would  be  quite  unfair."  Now,  why 
did  it  give  you  pain  to  hear  Mary  praised,  if  you  really  love 
her,  and  are  not  envious  of  her  ?  and  why  was  it  needful  to 
assure  her  admirer  that  she  had  had  such  superior  advan- 
tage ?  Did  it  make  your  singing  any  worse  to  know  that 
hers  was  better  ;  and  if  it  was  better,  why  deny  that  this 
better  singing  was  any  merit  of  hers  ? 

I  discovered  then  that  you  were  envious  ;  but  I  was 


My  Greai-Aunfs  Picture.  117 

confirmed  in  my  discovery  the  next  day,  when,  as  I  sat 
at  work  with  you,  a  common  friend  of  ours  chose  to  des- 
cant on  the  beauty  and  loveliness  of  Isabel.  You  listened 
for  some  time  uneasily,  and  with  a  slightly  heightened 
color.  You  seemed  to  assent,  and  you  even  smiled,  but 
it  was  not  a  cordial  smile ;  and  you  said  gently,  "  Yes, 
she  is  pretty,  and  has  charming  spirits  ;  but  I  think  her 
manner  has  been  a  httle  more  subdued  since  her  sister 
made  that  run-away  match." 

By  this  remark  you  made  the  visitor  suddenly  silent; 
the  shock  of  the  information  that  you  had  conveyed 
was  considerable.  You  knew  him  to  be  ignorant  of  that 
fact,  yet  you  took  care  to  convey  it  as  if  you  were  merely 
referring  to  something  well  known  to  you  both,  and  you 
presently  continued  in  a  quiet  tone,  "  Those  charming 
high  spirits  have  their  disadvantages,  after  all."  He 
slowly  answered,  ■"  Yes,"  and  then  asked  if  Isabel  re- 
sembled her  sister  in  person.  "  O,  she  is  the  image  of 
her,"  you  answered  good-humoredly ;  "  the  sisters  are  as 
much  alike  in  face  as  in  manner."  (I  have  never  heard  any 
one  else  advert  to  this  strong  Hkeness,  nor  can  I  see  it.) 

Upon  this  the  visitor,  effectually  silenced,  stooped  and 
picked  up  his  glove ;  we  both  thought  the  information  you 
had  conveyed  gave  him  more  uneasiness  than  we  should 
have  supposed.  He  thought  it  a  great  disadvantage  to 
Isabel,  as  you  meant  he  should  do ;  but  you  had  no  re- 
ward for  your  information :  he  could  not  be  interested  in 
the  lively  conversation  which  you  tried  to  engage  him  in  ; 
he  liked  you  none  the  better  because  you  made  him  like 
Isabel  less. 

Here  the  manuscript  abruptly  terminates.  On  exami- 
nation it  appears  that  some  concluding  pages  have  been 
torn  away;  but  I  will  not  draw  upon  my  own  invention 
to  supply  a  conclusion  ;  I  prefer  to  give  the  story  as  it 
stands. 


DR.    DEANE'S    GOVERNESS 


CHAPTER    I. 

I  DO  not  like  this  title.  It  should  have  been  "Dr. 
Deane's  Children's  Governess  " ;  but  that  sounds  awk- 
ward, and  we  Enghsh  are  fond  of  clipping  out  all  words 
that  are  not  uttered  with  ease.  We  never  say,  Mrs.  Rich- 
ardson's Children's  Governess,  or  Mrs.  Chichester's  Chil- 
dren's Governess  ;  so  let  it  be  Dr.  Deane's  Governess, 
it  will  save  trouble. 

Dr.  Deane's  governess,  Miss  Ann  Salter,  was  quietly 
seated,  about  three  o'clock  on  a  Wednesday  afternoon,  by 
the  window  of  a  pleasant  little  carpeted  room,  which  was 
evidently  used  as  a  school-room.  The  sun  shone  in  at 
the  window;  the  light  air  was  blowing  in  a  good  many 
petals  of  China  roses.  Four  children  were  placing  out- 
side, three  girls  and  a  boy,  the  latter  about  six  years  old, 
and  the  girls  aU  older. 

Miss  Ann  Salter  had  a  book  in  her  hands  ;  and  I  can 
put  you  in  possession  of  her  attitude  at  once,  if  you  have 
ever  seen  a  pretty  print  called  "  The  Governess,"  by  say- 
ing that  precisely  and  exactly  in  the  position  of  "  The 
Governess  "  sat  Miss  Ann  Salter.  If  you  vnsh.  to  know 
whether  she  had  seen  the  print  in  question,  I  am  happy  to 
inform  you  (it  being  my  desire  to  oblige  you  with  all  proper 
information)  that  she  had. 

But  if  ^'ou  yourself  have  not  seen  this  print,  I  must  tell 
you  that  it  represents  a  very  pretty  pensive-looking  girl, 
6 


122  Studies  for  Stories. 

sitting  quite  alone,  with  her  feet  upon  a  stool,  her  hands 
dropped  on  her  knees,  and  an  open  letter  in  them.  Her 
hair  is  drawn  in  a  braid  from  her  cheek,  and  one  long  curl 
falls  on  her  neck.  She  is  dressed  in  deep  mourning,  and 
is  evidently  musing  over  this  letter  from  home  ;  perhaps 
it  is  from  a  bereaved  mother.  There  are  globes  in  her 
room,  and  slates  and  maps,  and  children's  dogs'-eared 
books  ;  so  there  are  in  the  room  where  Miss  Ann  Salter 
sits.  But  she  is  not  in  mourning.  She  is  dressed  in  a 
gown  of  a  light-brown  color,  with  three  flounces,  a  stripe 
of  blue  at  the  edge  of  eacli,  and  a  very  pretty  collar  and 
cuffs  of  her  own  work.  It  is  always  best  to  be  particular 
in  describing  these  little  matters,  because  it  prevents  mis- 
takes. 

The  hands  and  feet  represented  in  the  print  are  unnat- 
urally small.  Miss  Ann  Salter's,  however,  were  of  the 
usual  dimensions  ;  her  hair,  dressed  exactly  like  that  of 
"  The  Governess,"  was  smooth,  abundant,  and  of  a  some- 
what sandy  hue.  She  had  very  light  eyebrows  and  eye- 
lashes ;  and  her  face,  young,  healthy,  and  plump  as  it  was, 
had  no  pretensions  to  beauty,  or  even  to  good  looks,  ex- 
cepting when  she  was  laughing  or  looking  very  animated  ; 
then  it  was  a  pleasant  young  face  enough,  and  as  fresh  as 
a  milkmaid's. 

At  the  time  of  which  we  speak  her  face  was  very  gently 
pensive,  though  it  was  a  half-holiday,  though  she  had  a 
new  book  on  her  lap,  and  though  it  was  quarter-day. 

Perhaps  she  had  been  seated  twenty  minutes  in  this  posi- 
tion, when  one  of  her  little  pupils  ran  up  to  the  window, 
and  exclaimed,  "  O,  Miss  Salter,  Johnnie  has  got  papa's 
great  squirt,  and  he  is  squirting  the  roses  !  "■  Thereupon 
Miss  Salter  started  up,  and  in  a  voice  a  little  sharp  for 
such  a  pensive  heroine,  exclaimed,  looking  forth  from  the 
window,  "  Johnnie,  you  naughty  boy,  bring  that  squirt  to 
me  immediately  "  ;  and  Johnnie  reluctantly  approached  the 


Dr.  Dearies  Governess.  123 

arbiter  of  his  fate  with  a  large  greenhouse  syringe  under 
his  arm. 

"How  came  you  to  take  that?"  asked  Miss  Salter,  with 
impressive  solemnity. 

"  It  was  only  just  inside  the  greenhouse  door,"  said  the 
chubby  little  culprit ;  "  and  I  've  only  just  been  squirting 
some  bees  tliat  had  got  into  the  roses." 

"  Put  it  back  directly,"  said  Miss  Salter. 

"  May  n't  I  just  squirt  the  rest  of  the  water  out  first  ? " 
asked  the  boy. 

"  No,"  replied  the  governess,  "  you  may  not ;  and  you 
are  not  to  be  always  saying,  I  only  just  did  this  and  that. 
It  is  very  naughty  to  make  excuses ;  put  back  the  squirt 
directly  where  you  found  it.' 

Thereupon  the  little  boy  slowly  turned  away,  and  carried 
his  stolen  plaything  across  a  well-ordered  lawn,  under  some 
tall  fir-trees,  and  along  a  gravel  walk,  till  he  reached  a 
greenhouse,  his  governess  watching  him  till  she  saw  him 
put  down  the  squirt  and  come  out  again.  She  then  with- 
drew her  head  and  shoulders  from  the  canopy  of  roses, 
clematis,  and  passion-flower  into  which  she  had  been  lean- 
ing, and  at  the  same  moment  a  respectable  elderly  servant 
opened  the  door  behind  her,  and  said,  "  Master  has  come 
in,  Miss  Salter,  and  wishes  to  speak  to  you,  if  you  please." 

O,  quarter-day,  thought  Miss  Salter,  and  answered, 
"Very  well,  Andrew,  I  will  come." 

As  she  approached  the  study  door,  it  was  opened,  and 
three  female  servants  issued  from  it.  "  How  painful  it  is," 
she  thought,  "  to  be  paid  my  salary  just  at  the  same  time 
that  they  receive  their  wages.  I  have  no  doubt  they  know 
why  I  am  summoned  just  now." 

Dr.  Deane  was  going  over  some  accounts  with  an  old 
lady  who  superintended  his  household.  He  looked  up  pleas- 
antly, and  said,  "  Sit  down,  Miss  Salter  ;  I  thought  I  should 
have  been  ready  for  you,  but  you  see  there  are  more  last 


1 24  Studies  for  Stories. 

words.  Well,  Mrs.  Mills,  it  certainly  does  seem  a  great 
deal  to  pay  for  meat  at  this  time  of  the  year,  especially 
when  there  is  plenty  of  grass." 

"O,  it's  a  shameful  price,  Doctor,  quite  shameful!  I 
told  Curtis  I  was  sure  you  would  not  go  on  with  him,"  said 
the  old  lady,  looking  quite  irate. 

"  What  an  interest  Mrs.  Mills  takes  in  her  sfupid  house- 
keeping ! "  thought  Miss  Salter,,  sitting  down,  and  falling 
quite  naturally  into  the  attitude  of  "The  Governess." 
"  Really  one  would  have  thought  it  was  a  matter  of  life  and 
death  to  save  the  Doctor  sixpence." 

Dr.  Deane  went  on  with  the  accounts,  and  presently 
said,  "  Well,  Mrs.  Mills,  it  is  as  you  say,  and  we  had  better 
change  our  butcher." 

"  That  is  exactly  what  I  expected  you  to  say,  Doctor," 
proceeded  Mrs.  Mills.  "  I  said  to  Curtis  only  yesterday, 
'  You  are  your  own  enemy,  Curtis  ;  you  raise  the  price  of 
meat  till  you  either  lose  your  customers,  or  induce  them  to 
make  up  with  poultry  and  fish.'     '  Well,  ma'am,'  said  he, 

*  I  hope  you  will  not  lose  me  a  good  customer  by  com- 
plaining of  my  prices  to  the  Doctor.'     *  Indeed,'  said  I, 

*  I  shall  think  it  my  duty  to  mention  it ;  I  should  consider 
myself  unfaithful  to  my  trust  if  I  did  not'  " 

Thereupon  followed  a  discussion  as  to  what  butcher 
should  be  employed  ;  it  lasted  five  minutes,  and  while  they 
pass,  and  while  Miss  Salter  still  sits  in  the  attitude  of 
"  The  Governess,"  we  will  look  about  us  and  describe  what 
we  see. 

We  see  that  the  room  is  a  small  one,  and  that  its  floor  is 
covered  with  a  faded  green  carpet,  which  is  all  the  worse 
for  the  chemical  experiments  made  by  its  owner ;  there  are 
many  books,  but  they  are  all  locked  up  in  glass  cases.  In 
glass  cases,  also,  are  displayed  numerous  skeletons  of 
small  animals,  mice,  moles,  birds,  and  cats  ;  and  in  trays 
protected  by  glass  lie  metallic  treasures  and  specimens  of 


Dr.  Deane's  Governess.  125 

ore  Jfrom  the  gold  fields.  Altogether  the  room  has  a  cold, 
shut-up,  and  glassy  effect,  not  at  all  home-Uke,  and  very- 
much  the  reverse  of  comfortable. 

But  the  Doctor  himself,  whom  we  also  see,  looks  as  if  he 
could  make  any  room  comfortable  ;  he  is  a  fine  man  with 
a  keen  black  eye  that  seems  to  be  always  on  the  lookout 
for  symptoms,  a  thick  black  eyebrow,  and  a  thick  head  of 
iron-gray  hair ;  he  looks  about  fifty  years  of  age,  has  regu- 
lar features,  a  delightfully  cordial  smile,  but  an  abrupt 
manner,  and  what  the  poor  call  a  jery  out-spoken  way 
with  him. 

.  As  his  old  friend,  Mrs.  Mills,  left  the  room.  Dr.  Deane 
turned  suddenly  to  Miss  Salter,  who  straightway  changed 
her  position. 

''  Miss  Salter,"  said  he,  "  you  have  not  looked  quite  the 
thing  lately.     What  is  it  ?  headache  ?  " 

"  O  no,  sir,"  said  the  Governess,  blushing. 

"  O  no,  sir !  why,  one  would  think  it  was  a  shame  to 
have  the  headache.  By  the  by,  I  don't  wish  the  children 
to  drink  any  more  of  that  beer ;  Andrew  tells  me  it  is 
quite  sour,  —  the  thunder,  no  doubt.  Did  you  drink  any 
of  it  at  dinner  to-day  1 " 

"  Yes,  a  little  ;  but  it  is  not  particularly  sour  ;  and  I  am 
quite  well,  sir,  indeed,"  said  Miss  Salter,  blushing  more 
than  ever,  and  perfectly  shocked  at  the  notion  that,  if  she 
did  not  look  "  quite  the  thing,"  it  was  in  consequence  of 
drinking  sour  beer. 

"Then  you  really  feel  perfectly  well  ?"  asked  Dr.  Deane. 

"  Perfectly  well,  I  assure  you,  sir." 

"Humph,"  said  the  Doctor.  "Well,  Miss  Salter,  you 
and  I  generally  have  a  little  conversation  on  quarter-day ; 
and  if  you  have  anything  to  mention,  or  to  complain  of, 
now  is  the  time.'  My  wish  is,  as  far  as  I  can,  to  meet 
your  reasonable  expectations.  Do  you  find  that  Johnnie 
is  growing  too  much  of  a  Turk  for  you  ?  I  know  the  rogue 
is  alwavs  in  mischief." 


126  Studies  for  Stories. 

"  No ;  he  is  pretty  good  generally,  I  think,  when  he  is 
in  the  school-room  ;  and  the  little  girls  are  very  orderly." 

"  And  your  father  and  all  your  family  are  well,  I  know ; 
I  saw  them  yesterday.  Your  father  seemed  in  capital 
spirits,  —  said  the  crops  were  finer  than  he  had  known 
them  for  years.  Well,  Miss  Salter,  have  you  anything  to 
remark  upon  ?  " 

-  Miss  Salter  considered,  and  then  answered,  thoughtfully, 
"  No,  sir  ;  there  really  is  nothing  particular  to  mention  that 
I  know  of." 

"  Nothing  that  you  wish  altered  ?  Then  I  suppose  you 
wish  to  retain  your  situation  ?  " 

"  If  you  are  satisfied.  Dr.  Deane." 

"  I  certainly  do  not  wish  that  we  should  part.  I  have 
found  you  a  conscientious,  good  girl,  and  fully  clever 
enough  for  my  dear  little  dunderheads.  You  neither  neg- 
lect them  nor  overwork  them.  And  besides,  having  known 
you  ever  since  you  were  born,  and  all  your  family  having 
been  patients  of  mine  so  many  years,  I  naturally  feel  that 
you  are  likely  to  be  more  comfortable  with  me  than  a  perfect 
stranger  would  be,  and  also  that  the  highest  testimonials 
would  not  enable  me  to  trust  a  stranger  as  I  do  you." 

An  expression  of  great  pleasure  came  over  the  face  of 
Miss  Ann  Salter.  "  Thank  you,  sir,"  she  said  ;  "  I  am  sat- 
isfied, and  much  obliged  to  you  for  —  for  —  " 

"  For  my  good  opinion,  eh  }  "  said  the  physician,  with  a 
smile.     "  Well,  but  now  I  am  going  to  scold." 

Miss  Salter  looked  up  rather  alarmed,  and  blushed,  with 
a  sort  of  conscious  look,  which  told  plainly  that  she  sus- 
pected what  was  going  to  be  said. 

"  The  fact  is,"  proceeded  Dr.  Deane,  "  that  I  should  be 
very  glad  if  you  would  try  to  look  as  you  say  you  feel. 
You  have  told  me  that  the  children  behave  reasonably 
well,  and  that  you  are  in  good  healtlT,  and  quite  comforta- 
ble.   What  I  wish  is,  that  you  should  appear  so.    When 


Dr.  Deanes  Governess.  127 

first  you  came  to  us,  and,  indeed,  till  quite  lately,  you  were 
as  ready  for  any  sort  of  expedition  or  amusement  as  the 
children  themselves  ;  —  such  a  hand  at  a  nutting  !  —  in  such 
spirits  at  hop-picking  time  !  .  Now  you  walk  about  with 
your  head  hanging  down,  and  have  the  air  of  appearing  to 
think  that  it  is  quite  derogatory  to  smile,  and  —  Well, 
well,  I  did  not  mean  to  make  you  uncomfortable ;  but  I 
should  be  glad.  Miss  Salter,  to  see  you  cheerful  again,  and, 
in  short  —  contented." 

"  Contented,  sir  ! "  exclaimed  Miss  Salter,  in  a  tone  of 
astonishment  and  vexation. 

"  Well,  perhaps  I  am  wrong,  —  I  beg  your  pardon  if  I 
am  ;  I  will  change  the  word,  and  say,  I  should  be  glad  to 
see  you  less  pensive  —  less  depressed." 

"  One  cannot  always  prevent  such  feelings,"  said  Miss 
Salter,  with  downcast  eyes.  "  Depression  is  the  result  of 
circumstances." 

"  You  are  wrong.  Miss  Salter." 

"Sir?" 

"  I  say  you  are  mistaken.  Depression  of  spirits,  when 
it  is  real,  and  when  people  cannot  help  it,  comes,  in  ninety- 
nine  cases  out  of  a  hundred,  from  dyspepsia,  or  from  a  dis- 
ordered liver,  —  in  short,  from  bodily  causes." 

"  Surely,  sir,  that  is  looking  at  it  with  a  physician's 
eyes  !  "  e:Jfclaimed  Miss  Salter,  looking  not  a  little  vexed. 

"  And  that  is  how  one  must  look  at  it  who  knows  any- 
thing about  it.  When  people  are  in  perfectly  sound  health, 
they  may  feel  acute  sorrow,  deep  anxiety,  the  keenest  dis- 
tress of  mind,  the  most  painful  agitation,  —  they  may  suffer 
from  disappointment,  from  remorse,  from  a  thousand  other 
of  '  the  ills  that  flesh  is  heir  to,'  but  not  from  that  lumpish, 
spiritless  feeling,  that  you  and  I  are  talking  of  by  the  name 
of  depression,  unless  they  are  brooding  over  something  in 
their  lot  that  displeases  them.  In  short,  what  I  want  to 
say,  and  what  I  want  you  to  reflect  upon  is  this  ;  that  as  a 


1 2-8  Studies  for  Stories. 

physician  I  give  it  you  as  my  candid  opinion,  that  what  we 
now  understand  each  other  to  mean  by  depression  is  either 
disease  or  discontent." 

"  I  am  sorry  you  should  have  thought  me  discontented," 
observed  Miss  Salter,  slowly,  though  without  any  appear- 
ance of  ill  temper ;  "  but  with  such  a  theory,  sir,  I  do  not 
see  how  you  could  have  thought  otherwise." 

"  I  talk  to  you  with  more  freedom,"  was  the  reply,  "  than 
I  could  do  if  I  merely  stood  in  the  position  of  an  em- 
ployer, I  also  have  the  superintendence  of  your  health. 
Not  that  it  has  ever  caused  me  much  anxiety  ;  you  were 
always  a  cheerful,  healthy,  little  romping  child,  full  of  life 
and  activity.  You  came  to  me,  and  I  think  I  may  say  that 
your  natural  characteristics  have  not  been  unduly  re- 
strained ;  indeed,  your  excellent  spirits  and  love  of  out- 
of-door  life  have  been  to  me  one  of  your  chief  recom- 
mendations. Well,  I  was  highly  pleased  with  you,  and  I 
beheved  you  were  just  as  well  pleased  with  us,  till  all  on  a 
sudden  I  happened  to  say  to  you  one  day,  at  the  early  din- 
ner —  (I  remember  it  was  the  very  day  after  Fanny  came 
to  stay  with  me) —  "Will  you  take  some  more  beef,  Miss 
Salter  ?  "  and  you  turned  your  face  slowly  to  me,  and  said, 
"  No,  thank  you,  sir,"  with  such  a  pensive  voice,  and  with 
such  an  air  of  patient  meekness,  that  I  declare  I  felt  for 
the  moment  as  if  I  must  be  a  jailer  who  depriWd  you  of 
your  liberty,  or  a  host  that  abridged  you  of  your  food. 
Now  I  have  done ;  and  I  am  sure  you  will  endeavor  to 
alter  your  manner  in  this  particular.  Here  is  your  check  ; 
take  it  with  the  pleasant  reflection  that  you  have  earned  it 
well,  and  that  I  think  so." 

Now  Miss  Salter  had  an  excellent  temper,  and  consider- 
able self-control.  Probably  she  felt  annoyed  at  this  plain- 
speaking  ;  but  if  she  did,  she  did  not  show  it,  but  took  her 
check,  and  perhaps  would  have  said  something  to  the  effect 
that  she  would  give  the  subject  her  best  attention,  if  at  that 


Dr.  Deanes  Governess.  129 

moment  a  knock  had  not  been  heard  outside  the  door,  which 
was  followed  by  the  entrance  of  a  pretty  girl,  tall,  slender, 
and  yellow-haired.  She  was  elegantly  attired  in  a  glossy 
dress  of  light-shining  silk,  a  graceful  mantle,  and  a  white 
bonnet,  and  as  she  entered,  she  exclaimed  :  — 

"  Uncle,  the  pony-chaise  is.  coming  round.  Are  you 
ready?" 

"Yes,  my  dear,"  said  Dr.  Deane.  "But  stop,  this  is 
pay-day,  Fanny,  and  I  will  give  you  your  allowance." 

"  O,  thank  you,  uncle  ! "  exclaimed  Fanny,  shaking  back 
her  long  curls.  "I  am  sure  I  shall  be  very  thankful  for  it, 
I  am  so  poor,  —  am  I  not,  Annie  t  Do  you  know,  uncle, 
I  was  obhged  to  borrow  a  sovereign  of  Miss  Salter,  be- 
cause you  insisted  on  not  giving  me  my  money  till  quarter- 
day." 

"  Fanny,  Fanny,  you  are  a  very  extravagant  child.  Why, 
even  when  people  earn  their  money,  I  never  pay  them  be- 
forehand. And  you,  you  httle  useless,  idle  thing,  you  that 
are  only  a  consumer,  and  not  a  producer,  you  actually  want 
to  coax  me  to  pay  you  money  that  you  never  earned  before 
the  time  when  I  agreed  to  pay  it ;  and  because  I  will  not, 
you  little  drone,  you  go  and  borrow  of  the  industrious  bee. 
I  wonder  you  trusted  her,  Miss  Salter !  There ;  count 
your  money,  child,  and  tell  me  whether  it  is  right."  . 

"  No,  uncle  ;  one  sovereign  too  much." 

"  Then  pay  your  debt  with  it,  like  an  honest  young  wo- 
man. And  now,  remember  that  I  never  mean  to  do  this 
again  ;  I  am  'principled  against  it,'  as  the  Americans  say." 
So  saying,  Dr.  Deane  bustled  out  of  the  room,  leaving  the 
two  girls  together. 

"Here  is  your  sovereign,  dear,"  said  Fanny  to  Miss 
Salter.  "  Was  it  not  lucky  that  I  chanced  to  mention  hav-. 
ing  borrowed  it  ?  I  had  not  the  least  notion  that  uncle 
would  give  it  me." 

"Nor  I,"  remarked  Miss  Salter  ;  "the  Doctor  considers 
6*  I 


1 30  Studies  for  Stories. 

it  quite  wrong,  you  know,  to  exceed  one's  income.  Really, 
Fanny,  I  think  you  should  be  more  careful." 

"So  I  will,  dear,"  said  Fanny,  stooping  to  kiss  her. 
Fanny  was  tall  but  exceedingly  slender  ;  and  though  very 
graceful,  had  not  the  agreeable  air  of  health  presented  by 
the  Governess.  "  I  thought  I  had  been  careful  till  I  found 
my  money  was  all  gx)ne,"  she  observed. 

"  No  wonder,  if  you  have  three  new  bonnets  in  one 
summer." 

"Why,  you  would  not  have  me  wear  a  dingy  bonnet, 
would  you  1 " 

"No,  but  I  would  not  have  you  wear  a  delicate,  gauzy 
thing  like  this,  in  the  dusty  road,  during  a  drive.  A  straw- 
bonnet  would  look  as  well  and  rfiore  appropriate  to-day. 
Stoop  a  little,  will  you,  it  is  not  quite  straight."  Fanny 
stooped.  Miss  Salter  adjusted  the  bonnet  to  her  mind, 
shook  out  the  folds  of  her  gown,  and  altered  the  set  of  the 
mantle. 

"  Have  you  not  been  talking  some  time  with  my  uncle  ?  " 
asked  Fanny.  "  I  thought  when  I  came  in  you  looked 
uncomfortable." 

"  I  only  looked  as  I  felt  then,"  said  Miss  Salter,  sighing. 

"  O  well,  I  must  say  that  if  my  uncle  is  not  pleased 
that  Johnny  is  so  noisy,  that  I  think  it  is  more  his  fault 
than  yours  ;  for  really,  Annie,  I  am  sure  he  pets  him  more 
than  he  does  the  Httle  girls.  However,"  said  Fanny,  re- 
flecting that  this  was  no  business  of  hers,  "  my  uncle  is 
very  kind  to  all  the  children,  and  to  me  too." 

"it  was  not  about  Johnnie  that  he  spoke,"  said  Miss 
Salter,  blushing  again  at  the  recollection  of  the  lecture  she 
had  received  ;  "  he  thinks  —  he  intimated  that  I  was  — 
I  don't  know  that  I  can  tell  you  now ;  I  will  some  other 
time." 

As  she  spoke,  an  expression  of  the  gentlest  pity  came 
over  the  fair  face  that  was  looking  down  into  hers,  and  its 


Dr.  Deanes  Governess.  131 

owner  said  with  a  sigh,  and  in  a  tone  of  sympathy,  "  Dear 
Annie." 

"  Of  course  I  must  expect  this  kind  of  thing  in  my  pain- 
ful position,"  said  Miss  Salter. 

"  Yes,"  said  Fanny,  with  more  sincerity  than  wisdom  or 
knowledge  of  what  she  was  talking  about;  "but  it  is  a 
great  comfort  to  know  that  all  the  trials  of  the  Christian 
shall  '  work  together  for  good.'  I  am  afraid,  dear,  that  you 
have  felt  your  position  more  than  usual  lately.  I  noticed 
this  morning  that  you  looked  particularly  depressed."  At 
the  mention  of  this  word  Miss  Salter  sighed  ;  but  as  a 
loud,  cheerful  voice  was  heard  in  the  hall,  calHng,  "  Fanny, 
Fanny  !  come,  child,  I  am  ready,"  Fanny  hastily  ran  out, 
and  Miss  Salter  retired  to  her  room,  where  she  put  on  her 
hat,  and  went  into  the  garden. 

"  Uncle,"  said  Fanny,  when  they  had  driven  about  a 
quarter  of  a  mile,  "  don't  you  think  Miss  Salter  has  looked 
rather  depressed  lately  ?  "  She  said  this  partly  from  a^lit- 
tle  feeling  of  womanly  curiosity,  and  partly  because,  in  her 
kind  heart,  she  had  found  a  place  for  the  Governess. 

"  Depressed  ?  "  said  Dr.  Deane  ;  "  yes,  my  dear,  I  have 
been  talking  to  her  about  it  this  morning." 

"  Have  you,  uncle  ? "  replied  Fanny.  She  longed  to  ask 
another  question,  but  did  not  dare. 

"  O  Fanny !  Fanny  !  mind  I  never  see  you  pursing  up 
your  mouth,  and  looking  as  if  you  were  trying  hard  not  to 
laugh  when  anything  droll  is  said  in  your  presence.  And 
then  if  you  really  cannot  help  laughing,  never  let  me  see 
you  turning  away  your  face  to  hide  it,  and  heaving  up  a 
sigh  to  show  that  you  are  determined  not  to  be  amused." 

"  Does  Miss  Salter  do  so  ?  "  asked  Fanny,  with  her  nat- 
ural simplicity.  "  Yes,  I  think  I  have  noticed  it ;  but,  how- 
ever, one  naturally  makes  allowance  for  her,  and  it  is  no  won- 
der she  feels  pensive.  Obliged  to  descend  from  her  posi- 
tion in  society,  separated  from  her  family,  poor  girl,  obliged 


132  Studies  for  Stories. 

to  work  for  her  living,  always  seeing  those  about  her  who 
are  in  superior  circumstances." 

"Why,  is  not  Lucy,  the  dairymaid,  separated  from  her 
family,  and  obliged  to  work  for  her  living,  and  to  see  those 
about  her  who  are  in  superior  circumstances  ;  and  do5s  she 
look  depressed  ?  " 

"  O,  no  !  but  she  was  most  hkely  always  brought  up  to 
know  that  she  was  to  go  to  service." 

"  Does  that  circumstance  make  service  agreeable  to 
her?" 

"  Yes,  I  suppose  so,  uncle." 

"  How  do  you  know  that  Miss  Salter  had  not  the  advan- 
tage of  knowing  that  she  was  to  be  a  governess  .''  Have 
you  inquired  ? " 

"  No,  uncle  ;  I  took  it  for  granted  that  she  had  not." 

"  And  what  else  have  you  taken  for  granted,  Fanny  ?  Tell 
me  ;  for  I  think  I  see  a  ray  of  light  breaking  through  ob- 
scurity." 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  mean,  uncle." 

"  Never  mind  that ;  give  me  your  views,  and  tell  me 
what  you  -have  been  pleased  to  take  for  granted,  respecting 
governesses  in  general." 

"  I  have  read  a  good  many  interesting  stories,"  said  Fan- 
ny, hesitating,  "that  had  a  governess  for  their  heroine. 
The  last  I  read  was  particularly  interesting,  and  it  made 
me  feel  that,  as  a  class,  they  deserved  a  great  deal  of  con- 
sideration, and  —  I  don't  exactly  know  how  to  say  what  I 
mean,  but  when  I  came  here  I  felt  that  I  ought  to  be  par- 
ticularly polite  and  friendly  to  Miss  Salter,  and  to  feel  a 
great  deal  of  pity  for  her." 

"  Humph  !  now  give  me  a  sketch  of  the  story." 

"  O,  the  heroine  is  a  tall,  dark-eyed,  lovely  creature, 
brought  up  in  the  greatest  luxury,  and  accustomed  to  asso- 
ciate with  refined  people.  Her  father  loses  all  his  property, 
and  dies.     The  story  opens  with  her  taking  leave  of  her 


Dr.  Deanes  Governess.  133 

bereaved  mother.  They  are  so  poor  that  she  is  obliged  to 
take  her  long  journey  in  the  depth  of  winter,  on  the  top  of 
a  coach,  and  she  reaches  her  first  place  at  night  And  the 
story  goes  on  to  say  that  the  people  are  very  vulgar,  and 
treat  her  with  the  greatest  insolence  and  harshness,  par- 
ticularly the  master  of  the  house,  who  disHkes  her  from 
the  first." 

"  But  she,  no  doubt,  is  a  miracle  of  patience  and  dis- 
cretion ? " 

"  Yes,  uncle,  she  is  very  unhappy,  but  bears  all  with  the 
sweetest  meekness,  though  she  often  retires  to  her  own 
room  to  weep,  and  think  over  the  happy  past ;  and  then  it 
goes  on  to  say  that  she  saves  one  of  the  children's  lives, 
and  the  house  is  just  going  to  be  robbed,  but  she  over- 
hears the  thieves  talking  and  disclosing  their  plans  behind 
a  hedge." 

"  A  hkely  incident !     Well,  go  on." 

"  It  ends  not  quite  so  naturally  as  it  begins.  She  mar- 
ries—" 

"  Of  course  she  does  !  The  eldest  son  lives  at  home. 
He  is  a  paragon  of  elegance  and  excellence,  in  spite  of  his 
vulgar  bringing  up.  He  is  also  particularly  handsome ; 
she  marries  him." 

"  Nothing  of  the  sort,  uncle." 

"  Then  she  marries  the  curate  ;  I  know  she  marries  the 
curate  !  and  immediately  after  his  rich  uncle  comes  from 
India,  lives  with  them,  dies  blessing  them,  and  leaves  them 
all  his  fortune." 

"  No,  she  does  n't,  uncle.  She  marries  a  young  baronet, 
who  is  struck  with  the  pensive  sweetness  of  her  face,  as 
she  takes  the  children  out  for  a  walk." 

"  Indeed ! " 

"  But  the  most  interesting  part  of  the  story  is  her  jour- 
nal," proceeded  Fanny,  "  with  the  description  of  all  her 
lonely  feelings  ;  really  it  is  quite  harrowing  to  read  it,  — 


134 


Studies  for  Stories. 


such  beautiful  resignation,  and,  at  the  same  time,  such 
melancholy." 

"  Pray,  my  dear,  have  you  talked  over  this  story,  and 
especially  this  journal,  with  Miss  Salter?" 

"Yes,  uncle." 

"  O  Fanny,  Fanny,  you  exceedingly  silly  little  goose." 


Dr.  Deanes  Governess.  135 


CHAPTER    II. 


«  T    DO  not  know  why  you  should  call  me  silly,  uncle," 

JL  said  Fanny,  looking  very  much  disconcerted  ;  "  I  am 
sure  I  have  always  meant  to  be  kind  to  Miss  Salter." 

"  My  dear,  your  kindness  was  commendable.  What  I 
complain  of  is  your  habit  of  taking  things  for  granted, 
and  acting  as  if  things  were  proved,  because  you  have  no 
doubt  concerning  them.  But  I  am  going  to  this  farm- 
house. Now,  be  discreet,  and  do  not  say  anything  without 
reflection." 

"  What  can  it  matter  what  I  say  here  ?  "  thought  Fanny. 
"  People  living  in  such  a  place  are  not  likely  to  be  great 
observers  of  manners  or  of  cultivated  language,  I  should 
think." 

Fanny's  face  showed  her  thoughts  so  plainly,  that  Dr. 
Deane  said  in  answer  to  it :  "  Fanny,  my  child,  take  my 
advice,  and  think  before  you  speak  here.  The  good  wo- 
man of  the  house  is  no  gentlewoman  ;  but  I  would  not  have 
you  hurt  her  feelings  for  a  good  deal." 

Fanny  was  surprised,  but  said  nothing,  though  her  un- 
cle's warning  made  her  look  about  her  attentively.  There 
was  nothing,  as  she  thought,  to  reward  scrutiny.  The 
farm-house,  instead  of  being  a  delightful  old  thatched 
building,  with  picturesque  gables,  and  walls  covered  with 
vines,  was  an  ugly  red  brick  house,  square,  neat,  new,  and 
undecorated  by  any  graceful  creepers.  There  was  a  barn 
in  full  view,  and  some  turkeys  were  strutting  about  before 
it ;  a  stout,  red-armed  country  girl  was  putting  potatoes 
into  a  trough  for  their  meal ;  and  there  was  a  large  duck- 


1 36  Studies  for  Stories. 

pond  near  the  front  parlor  window  which  was  well  stocked 
with  poultry,  whose  white  feathers  were  strewed  thickly 
over  the  grass. 

As  the  pony-chaise  stopped  before  the  door  of  the 
square  red  house,  a  pleasant-looking  woman  stepped  out, 
and  welcomed  the  doctor  with,  "  You  're  quite  a  stranger, 
sir." 

"  And  very  glad  to  be  so,"  replied  Dr.  Deane.  "  You  can 
hardly  see  too  little  of  the  doctor,  eh,  my  good  friend  ?" 

The  farmer's  wife  laughed  good-humoredly  at  this  little 
sally.  She  was  short,  plump,  healthy-looking,  and  had  a 
tone  in  her  voice  and  a  look  in  her  eyes  that  seemed  fa- 
miliar to  Fanny,  she  hardly  knew  why. 

"  You  '11  excuse  my  shaking  hands,  sir,"  said  she,  "  and 
you  too.  Miss,"  curtseying  to  Fanny ;  "  for  I  've  been  pick- 
ing walnuts  all  the  morning,  and  they  make  the  hands  as 
black  as  ink.     Come  in,  sir  !  " 

By  this  time  they  had  alighted,  and  the  Doctor  said,  pre- 
senting Fanny,  "  This  is  a  great  friend  of  your  daugh- 
ter's ;  Mrs.  Salter,  my  niece ;  Fanny,  this  is  Miss  Salter's 
mother." 

"  I  am  sure  I  am  much  obliged  to  the  young  lady  for 
taking  notice  of  my  Annie,"  said  Mrs.  Salter. 

Fanny's  surprise,  which  caused  the  clear  color  to  flush 
up  all  over  her  face,  was  far  too  great  to  admit  of  her  say- 
ing a  word ;  and  it  was  fortunate  for  her  that  she  was  fol- 
lowing Mrs.  Salter  into  the  parlor,  and  that  the  little  bus- 
tle of  setting  chairs,  and  making  her  visitors  comfortable, 
was  occupying  that  worthy  matron's  attention  till  she  had 
in  some  degree  recovered  herself  Then  Mrs.  Salter  re- 
curred to  the  subject,  and  said,  "It  must  be  very  pleasant 
for  my  Annie  to  have  such  a  nice  young  lady  to  speak  to." 

"  Yes,  they  are  great  friends,  indeed,"  replied  the  Doc- 
tor ;  "  young  people  are  generally  companionable." 

"  To  be  sure,  sir,"  said  Mrs.  Salter,  still  keeping  her  ad- 


Dr.  Deanes  Governess.  137 

miring  eyes  upon  Fanny,  "young  people  can  run  up  a 
friendship  in  a  day.  And  my  Annie  has  plenty  to  talk 
about ;  dear  me,  when  she  gets  a  holiday,  and  comes  over 
to  see  us,  her  tongue  never  stops,  bless  her ! " 

Fanny  was  still  mute ;  Miss  Salter's  home  and  Miss 
Salter's  mother  were  so  different  to  anything  she  had  im- 
agined, that  she  could  not  find  anything  to  say ;  but  she 
sufficiently  recovered  her  powers  of  observation  to  notice 
that  there  was  a  somewhat  strong  smell  of  tobacco  in  the 
room. 

"  Well,  sir,  and  how  is  my  dear  girl  ?  quite  well,  I  hope," 
said  the  fond  mother. 

"  Very  well,  indeed,  she  told  me  so  herself  this  morning ; 
and  would  have  sent  her  duty,  I  am  sure,  if  she  had  known 
I  was  coming  here,  but  she  did  not;  indeed,  I  did  not 
know  it  myself;  but  I  found  I  had  a  quarter  of  an  hour  to 
sp^re,  so  I  thought  I  would  bring  my  niece  to  see  you." 

"Thank  you,  sir,  for  the  visit.  I'm  always  pleased  to 
hear  that  my  Annie  is  well ;  being  my  only  girl,  I  feel  more 
for  her  than  for  my  great  rough  boys  ;  and  though  I  know 
that  she  has  had  a  rise  in  life,  I  sometimes  wish  I  had  her 
with  me,  for  all  that." 

A  pretty  white  kitten  at  this  moment  pushed  open  the 
door,  and  Fanny,  having  nothing  to  say,  was  glad  to  call  it 
to  come  and  sit  on  her  knee,  while  silently  listening  with 
some  shame  and  a  great  deal  of  surprise  to  the  conversa- 
tion which  followed. 

"  I  have  sometimes  wondered  why  you  spared  her  to  live 
away  from  home,  as  she  is  your  only  daughter,"  observed 
the  Doctor. 

"  Why,  you  see,  sir,"  replied  the  mother,  "  John  and  me, 
we  married  very  young,  and  we  were,  I  may  say,  badly 
off  for  a  good  many  years,  we  had  such  a  large  family ; 
farming,  too,  is  not  what  farming  used  to  be,  so  that 
altogether,  what  with  bad  seasons,  and  many  mouths  to 


138  Studies  for  Stories. 

feed,  I  assure  you,  though  I  don't  wish  to  complain,  that 
few  people  have  known  what  it  is  to  look  at  every  penny 
before  they  parted  with  it  more  than  we  have.  Well,  at 
last,  after  my  nine  boys,  Annie  was  born,  and  very  fond 
we  all  were  of  her,  n9,tural  enough  we  should  be  ;  but  my 
boys  were  so  rough,  that  they  soon  made  a  complete  tom- 
boy of  her,  that  they  did,  bless  her !  and  I  was  so  taken 
up  with  my  dairy  and  the  poultry,  that  try  as  I  would,  I 
could  not  find  time  to  teach  her.  I  managed  to  teach  her 
to  read,  and  her  eldest  brother  would .  set  her  a  sum  now 
and  then,  but  she  almost  ran  wild  ;  though  she  could  milk 
a  cow  prettily  enough  when  she  was  nine  years  old,  and 
was  mighty  fond  of  picking  fruit  for  market,  and  cramming 
turkeys.  I  was  beginning  to  wonder  how  I  could  ever 
manage  to  get  schooling  for  her,  when  my  husband's  moth- 
er came  to  live  with  us ;  she  soon  saw  how  things  were 
going  on,  and  one  day  she  said  to  me,  '  Annie,  I  know  you 
have  hard  work  to  get  on,  paying  all  their  own,  and  giving 
the  boys  their  learning.  And,'  says  she,  '  the  two  hundred 
and  fifty  pounds  that  I  have  saved,  John  should  have,  and 
welcome,  to  lay  out  on  his  farm,  only  that  I  know  better 
than  to  think  he  would  take  it  of  me  while  I  am  ahve  ;  and 
as  for  the  boys,  they  will  soon  be  a  help  to  you,  and  able 
to  earn  their  own  living ;  but  this  little  Annie,'  says  she, 
*  that  is  as  bright  as  the  day,  it  often  lies  like  a  weight  on 
my  mind,  that  if  anything  should  happen  to  her  father, 
there  is  nothing  for  her  but  to  go  to  service.'  '  Mother,' 
said  I,  '  we  must  put  our  trust  in  God.  John  here  has  the 
best  of  health,  and  I  am  stout  and  active  for  my  age,  so 
I  hope  for  the  best ;  but  I  do  not  deny  that  I  should  like 
to  see  my  Annie  married  before  I  die.'  Well,  she  was  a 
very  short-spoken  woman,  and  when  I  said  that,  *  mar- 
ried,' said  she,  '  husbands  that  are  worth  having  are  not 
so  easy  to  come  at ! '  She  did,  indeed,  sir.  So  says  I, 
'  Grandmother,  I  am  sure  John  and  I  would  always  vinsh 


Dr.  Deanes  Governess,  139 

to  take  your  advice  about  the  dear  child,  as  is  no  more 
than  our  duty,  so  speak  your  mind.'  However  she  never 
said  a  word  ;  but  next  market-day,  just  as  I  was  ready  to 
start  off  for  G — -  in  the  spring-cart,  she  came  down,  and 
says  she,  '  I  am  going  with  you.'  I  put  her  dov/n  at  the 
Miss  Jessops'  school,  and  I  took  her  up  again  when  I  had 
sold  my  poultry  and  butter ;  she  never  said  a  word,  good 
or  bad,  till  we  got  home  and  supper  was  over,  then  she 
said,  '■  John  and  Anne,  I  've  been  to  the  Miss  Jessops, 
who  I  hear  from  our  vicar  keep  the  best  school  in  the 
town,  and  I  have  made  an  agreement  with  them  that,  if 
you  are  willing,  they  shall  have  Annie  for  six  years  for  my 
money  j  and  then  whatever  happens  she  will  be  indepen- 
dent, and  able  to  get  her  bread.'  Of  course,  we  were 
agreeable  to  let  her  go,  and  very  thankful.  Her  grand- 
mother had  the  pleasure  of  seeing  her  in  your  house,  and 
of  feehng  that  she  was  now  independent  before  she  died." 

"Ah,  I  always  thought  your  husband's  mother  was  a 
sensible  woman,"  observed  Dr.  Deane. 

"  Yes,  sir,  she  really  was.  And  the  good  education  she 
gave  Annie  has  been  quite  a  rise  in  life  for  her,  as  I  tell 
her.  And  though  her  grandmother  did  talk  about  hus- 
bands being  hard  to  get,  —  my  Annie  —  why,  dear  me,  I 
know  a  young  man  that  would  —  however,  I  '11  say  no  more 
about  that,"  continued  Mrs.  Salter,  bridling. 

The  Doctor  smiled,  and  Mrs.  Salter,  having  already  re- 
marked that  she  should  say  no  more  about  it,  continued  in  a 
reflective  tone,  and  with  an  air  of  pretending  to  think  lightly 
of  the  young  man  whom  she  had  hinted  at :  "I  njust  say 
for  him  that  he  has  been  very  well  brought  up,  and  does 
credit  to  his  bringing  up,  which  is  more.  However,  when 
he  comes  to  me  and  says,  *  Mrs.  Salter,  I  know  she  '11 
never  care  for  me,  —  I  don  't  believe  she  cares  a  straw  for 
me,  — ''■  Keep  up  your  spirits,  William,'  I  always  say,  *you 
are  young  yet,  and  so  is  she.' " 


140  Studies  for  Stories, 

"  O,  it  is  young  William  Watkins,  is  it  ? "  asked  the 
Doctor  suddenly,  for  he  had  a  decided  tinge  of  curiosity 
about  him. 

"  No,  sir,"  replied  the  hostess,  thrown  off  her  guard,  "  it 
is  young  William  Dobson  at  the  mill ;  he  is  in  a  capital 
way  of  business,  and  owns  such  a  good  house  !  he  is  a 
very  fine  strapping  young  fellow,  too." 

"  Then  you  are  quite  in  his  interest,  Mrs.  Salter  ? " 

"I  leave  it  entirely  to  the  child  herself,"  replied  the 
mother  coolly ;  "  but  that  cherry-orchard  of  his  is  quite 
a  picture  !  I  really  don't  know  how  many  sieves  of  fruit 
he  did  n't  send  up  from  it  this  season,  though  his  mother 
told  me.  They  have  a  very  snug  httle  farm,  you  know,  sir, 
as  well  as  the  mill,  and  everything  prospers  with  them," 

"He  is  a  very  fine  young  fellow,  and  I  can  only  wish 
your  daughter  may  reward  him  for  his  liking,"  said  the 
Doctor. 

"  Well,  sir,  perhaps  she  may,"  replied  the  mother,  laugh- 
ing ;  "  he  was  always  coming  here  during  her  holidays, 
and  sometimes,  when  she  had  been  a  little  cool  with  him, 
I  would  go  as  far  as  to  say,  '  Ain't  you  ashamed  of  your- 
self ? '  and  then  she  would  laugh  and  say,  '  I  don't  want 
him  to  make  a  fuss  about  me  ;  I  can  do  very  well  without 
him,  mother.'" 

Fanny  was  hstening  with  great  interest  and  attention  ; 
and  Mrs.  Salter,  catching  her  eye,  continued,  "  But  I  beg 
your  pardon,  miss  ;  when  I  begin  talking  about  my  Annie, 
I  do  n't  know  how  to  leave  off." 

"  Don't  apologize,  Mrs.  Salter,"  said  the  Doctor,  rising, 
"  I  am  sure  what  you  have  said  has  interested  my  niece 
very  much." 

Fanny  finding  herself  thus  appeale.d  to,  roused  herself 
and  said  a  few  civil  things  to  this  good  mother  about  her 
daughter;  but  she  felt  so  surprised,  and  so  ashanied  of 
herself  for  the  false  conclusions  which  she  had  so  confi- 


Dr.  Dcancs  Govsmcss.  141 

dently  arrived  at,  that  she  was  very  glad  to  find  herself 
again  in  the  pony-carriage,  safe  away  from  the  ugly  farm- 
house, which  she  had  still  great  difficulty  in  thinking  of  as 
Annie  Salter's  home. 

"Well,  Fanny,"  said  the  Doctor,  after  a  long  silence, 
"what  do  you  think  of  Mrs.  Salter's  notions  of  a  rise  in 
life  ;  and  above  all,  what  do  you  think  of  her  definition  of 
independence  ? " 

"  Of  course  she  is  wrong,"  said  Fanny,  "  in  saying  that 
Annie  is  independent,  because  she  earns  her  own  living ; 
that  is  the  very  thing  that  prevents  her  from  being  inde- 
pendent." 

"  Prove  that,  my  dear  child," 

"  O,  you  know,  uncle,  that  servants,  and  governesses, 
and  people  who  live  in  gentlemen's  houses,  are  always 
called  their  dependants,  —  their  paid  dependants." 

"  Yes,  it  is  the  custom  to  call  them  so ;  it  means  that 
their  staying  in  such  houses  depends  on  the  owner's  pleas- 
ure ;  but  though  the  ambiguity  of  language  enables  us  to 
use  this  word  in  two  or  three  senses,  we  must  not  forget 
that  we  can  often,  with  equal  truth,  call  the  same  persons 
both  dependent  and  independent.     Which  am  I,  Fanny  ?  " 

"  Independent,  of  course,  uncle." 

"  How  can  that  be  ?  I  am  dependent  on  my  own  exer- 
tions. I  am  not  what  is  called  an  independent  gentleman, 
but  a  professional  man,  depending  on  my  profession  for  my 
bread." 

"  But  you  are  independent  of  anyone  else,^  said  Fanny ; 
"  you  only  depend  on  your  own  exertions.  I  mean,  that 
you  are  your  own  master." 

"  To  be  sure.  Then  where  is  the  diflference  between  me 
and  Miss  "Salter?" 

"O  uncle!  she  is  not  her  own  mistress;  she  is  under 
you,  and  she  must  work  so  as  to  please  you  for  her 
money." 


142  Studies  for  Stories. 

"  So  must  I  work  in  such  a  manner  as  to  please  others 
for  my  money ;  and  Miss  Salter  is  not  dependent  on  my 
exertions,  only  on  her  own." 

"  I  never  heard  of  such  a  thing,"  exclaimed  Fanny ; 
"surely  she  is  your  dependant." 

"  Call  her  so  if  you  like,  but  she  is  quite  independent  of 
me.  If  I  do  not  please  her,  she  has  only  to  go  and  leave 
me ;  I  cannot  make  her  stay,  any  more  than  my  patients 
can  make  me  stay  if  I  choose  to  go.  We  are  both  de- 
pendent and  independent,  —  independent  of  other  people's 
exertions,  and  dependent  on  our  own." 

"Then,"  said  Fanny,  "why  do  we  use  that  word  so 
falsely  ?  " 

"  Because  we  have  inherited  it  from  the  times  when 
servants  really  were  dependent  on  their  masters.  Serfs 
and  retainers  may  not  leave  their  masters  at  pleasure  ; 
they  are  dependent.  There  was  no  such  thing  as  a  gov- 
erness in  those  days  ;  but  we  have  foolishly  extended  a 
word  to  them  which  is  particularly  ill-suited  to  express 
their  condition  ;  we  speak  as  if  they  were  dependent  on 
MS,  whereas  the  peculiar  difference  between  them  and  other 
young  women  is  that  they  are  dependent  on  themselves,  or 
what,  in  all  other  cases,  we  call  independent." 

"  I  shall  certainly  tell  all  this  to  Miss  Salter,"  said  Fan- 
ny ;  "  she  has  often  talked  with  regret  about  her  trying 
position,  and  my  happier  lot." 

"  Who  began  first  to  talk  in  this  way,  Fanny  ? " 

"  O,  I  did,  uncle  ;  I  made  friends  with  her  from  the.  first, 
because  I  felt  for  her  position ;  but,  uncle,  if  she  is  inde- 
pendent, what  am  I  ?" 

"  Consult  your  own  good  sense,  my  dear  ;  how  do  mat- 
ters stand?  Your  dear  parents  left  no  property  behind 
them  beyond  what  I  spent  in  your  education.  I  take  you 
to  live  with  me  as  my  duty  and  my  pleasure.  I  do  not 
choose  that  you  should  earn  your  own  bread,  because  I 


Dr.  Demies  Governess,  143 

have  plenty.  You  are  therefore  dependent  upon  me  ;  and 
all  young  ladies  living  at  home  and  doing  nothing  are  in 
like  case,  unless  they  have  private  fortunes." 

"  Then,"  said  Fanny,  laughing,  "  I  am  glad  I  am  in  that 
case.  I  cannot  help  feeling,  though,  that  it  is  not  pleasant 
for  Annie  to  be  a  governess,  in  spite  of  what  her  mother 
said  about  its  being  a  rise  in  life." 

"  You  think  it  would  be  better,  then,  for  her  to  go  and 
live  at  home,  doing  the  work  of  the  house  and  the  farm  as 
her  mother  does,  —  very  hard  work  it  has  been  for  the 
good  woman,  —  far  harder  than  most  servants  do  for  wages, 
—  and  her  only  relaxation  is  to  go  in  the  spring-cart  to 
market,  and  sell  her  butter  and  eggs ;  or  to  sit  over  the 
fire  while  her  husband  and  his  friends  smoke  their  pipes, 
and  talk  of  the  turnip  crops,  or  discuss  the  price  of  wool." 

"  Oh  ! "  exclaimed  Fanny,  "  fancy  Annie  driving  the  spring- 
cart  to  market ;  how  ashamed  she  would  be  of  jogging  along 
in  it !  and  then  selling  her  butter  and  eggs  herself  at  a  stall, 
taking  up  the  raw  sausages,  and  exhibiting  the  plumpness 
of  her  ducks  and  geese,  and  then  sitting  with  those  prosy, 
coarse  farmers  under  a  cloud  of  tobacco-smoke  !  No  ;  she 
is  far  better  off  as  she  is." 

"  So  I  think,  and  so  her  mother  thinks  ;  she  is  educated 
and  refined  ;  these  are  blessings,  and  it  is  another  that  she 
should  be  living  with  people  equally  well  educated,  equally 
refined.  Such  being  the  case,  I  do  not  see  how  you  can 
talk  of  her  as  being  in  a  painful  position  without  absurdi- 
ty ;  for  if  it  is  in  itself  painful  to  live  among  one's  superi- 
ors, then  every  household  in  the  land  contains  some  mem- 
bers that  are  in  painful  positions  ;  all  the  servants  may  feel 
how  painful  it  is  that  they  should  have  to  dine  in  the  kitch- 
en, when  Miss  Salter  dines  in  the  parlor,  they  waiting  upon 
her.  Miss  Salter  may  feel  it  painful  to  know  that  you  have 
no  reason  to  work  for  your  living  as  she  has.  You,  on  the 
other  hand,  may  feel  it  hard  that  you  have  nothing  to  call 


144  St?id2es  for  St07'Us. 

your  own  but  what  is  given  you  by  me,  notwithstanding 
that  you  admit  that  it  is  a  pleasure  to  me  to  give  it.  I,  in 
my  turn,  may  feel  how  hard  it  is  that  I  should  have  to  be 
always  looking  after  my  patient,  Sir  John  W.,  instead  of 
having  a  hereditary  estate  like  him,  while  all  the  world 
knows  that  he  is  fretting  his  hfe  away  because  it  is  so  pain- 
ful to  him  that  his  cousin  should  have  made  good  a  title  to 

the  R peerage  against  him,  Sir  John,  and  should  be 

frequently  driving  past  his  door  with  the  coronet  on  his 
carriage." 

"  Well,  uncle,"  said  Fanny,  gently,  "  I  suppose  my  mis- 
take has  been  that  I  have  taken  for  granted  that  every 
governess  has  come  down  in  the  world ;  the  books,  you 
know,  almost  always  represent  a  governess  as  lovely  and 
ill-used,  and  living  among  people  who  are  really  her  inferi- 
ors in  birth  and  original  position.  So  when  I  first  saw 
Miss  Salter,  I  resolved  that  I  would  make  a  friend  of  her, 
be  extremely  polite  to  her,  and,  in  short,  pity  her  position, 
and  try  to  make  it  pleasanter  to  her." 

"  But  now  that  you  discover  that  she  is  not  a  fit  object 
for  pity,  that  she  is  not  ill-used,  and  that  she  is  not  of  gen- 
tle birth,  I  hope  you  will  be  too  just,  too  really  considerate, 
and  too  sorry  for  the  mischief  you  may  have  done  by  your 
ill-timed  pity,  to  withdraw  your  companionship  from  Miss 
Salter ;  I  hope,  as  she  has  never  deceived  you  about  her- 
self, but  has  merely  accepted  your  mistaken  compassion, 
and  responded  to  your  spontaneous  advances  towards 
friendship,  that  while  you  will  leave  off  condoling,  you  will 
not  leave  off  chatting  with  her,  and  sitting  with  her  as 
usual." 

"  O,  no,"  said  Fanny ;  and  added  slowly,  "  Of  course 
not." 

"  You  will  be  as  friendly  as  before,"  proceeded  the  Doc- 
tor, "  though  the  romance  of  the  thing  has  flown  away  on 
the  wings  of  Mrs.  Salter's  ducks  and  geese." 


Dr.  Dearies  Governess.  145 

"  Yes,"  said  Fanny ;  but  she  rather  over-calculated  her 
own  powers  of  self-control,  for  when  the  pony-carriage 
reached  the  Doctor's  garden.  Miss  Salter  came  up  to  it, 
and  asked  Fanny  to  walk  with  her  in  the  shrubbery.  Fan- 
ny, though  she  assented,  colored  and  seemed  uneasy,  and 
when  Miss  Salter  asked,  "  Where  did  you  drive,  dear  ? " 
she  hung  her  head  like  a  culprit,  and  answered,  blushing 
violently,  "  We  went  —  that  is,  my  uncle  took  me  —  at 
least  —  we  went  to  call  on  your  mother."  Miss  Salter, 
though  Fanny's  flattering  suppositions  that  she  was  a  he- 
roine in  painful  circumstances,  and  that  she  had  come, 
down  in  the  world,  and  ought  to  be  treated  with  all  con- 
sideration, had  been  too  agreeable  to  be  put  away,  was 
notwithstanding  too  sensible  not  to  feel  that  by  her  assump- 
tion of  pensiveness,  and  that  peculiarly  injured  air  so  ne- 
cessary to  a  heroine,  she  had  made  herself  ridiculous  in 
the  Doctor's  eyes,  and  now  Fanny's  excessive  confusion 
and  evident  reluctance  to  say  where  she  had  been,  made 
her  ridiculous  in  her  own  eyes.  She  walked  in  silence  for 
some  time  ;  at  length  she  said  « — 

"  Dr.  Deane  told  me  this  morning  that  mother  was  well." 

"  O  yes  ! "  replied  Fanny,  "  we  only  went  for  a  call ; 
and  I  thought  your  mother  a  very  nice  person  indeed, 
Annie,  and  she  seems  very  fond  of  you." 

A  sharp  pang  of  shame  darted  through  Ann  Salter's 
mind,  as  she  saw  the  evident  confusion  of  Fanny,  and  the 
shock  it  had  been  to  her  to  find  everything  connected  with 
her  friend,  the  governess,  so  different  from  what  she  had 
pictured  to  herself. 

She  walked  beside  Fanny  in  deeply  mortified '  silence. 
"  If  I  had  not  suffered  her  to  remain  in  her  self-deception," 
she  thought,  "  there  would  have  been  every  likelihood  that 
she  would  have  come  to  be  fond  of  me  for  my  own  sake  ; 
but  now  that  she  finds  I  am  not  what  she  expected,  how 
can  she  continue  to  c^e  for  me  ?  " 

7  J 


146  Studies  for  Stories. 

As  for  Fanny,  she  had  begun  to  walk  with  her  friend, 
but  had  not  a  word  to  say ;  she  felt  herself  under  some 
strong  constraint,  which  she  could  not  throw  off;  and  when 
they  reached  the  end  of  the  shrubbery  and  turned  agaiii, 
she  involuntarily  quickened  her  pace,  remarking,  "  That 
she  had  not  finished  a  letter,  which  ought  shortly  to  be 
posted,  and  must  go  in  to  write  it." 

Ann  Salter  saw  how  it  was  ;  she  only  detained  Fanny 
to  say,,  "  Did  you  call  anywhere  else  this  morning  ? "  and 
when  Fanny  answered  "  No ! "  the  color  rushed  to  her 
face,  as  she  turned  back  to  the  shrubbery.  "  So  then," 
she  thought,  "  the  Doctor  must  have  taken  Fanny  out  on 
purpose  that  she  might  see  my  family,  and  the  way  in 
which  we  Uve.  I  was  sure  he  meant  something  more  than 
he  said,  when  he  talked  about  my  depression." 


D7'.  Deaftes  Governess.  147 


CHAPTER    III. 


THE  eldest  of  Ann  Salter's  little  pupils  went  to  bed  at 
half  past  eight  in  the  evening,  at  which  time  she 
was  expected  to  make  her  appearance  in  the  drawing- 
room,  and  then  she  and  Fanny  generally  sang  or  played 
duets  together,  till  the  hour  for  family  prayer.  On  the 
evening  after  her  conversation  with  Fanny  in  the  garden, 
she  was  unusually  silent,  and  felt  a  constraint  upon  her 
which  made  her  long  for  bedtime ;  depression  had  given 
way  to  a  feeling  of  ingenuous  shame  ;  she  wished  she  had 
not  allowed  Fanny  to  talk  of  her  parentage,  taking  for 
granted  that  she  was  of  gentle  birth,  without  informing 
her  of  the  truth,  nor  to  speak  of  her  position  as  a  sad  one, 
and  of  her  case  as  one  demanding  sympathy,  without  set- 
ting her  right  "  How  absurd  I  have  been  !  "  she  thought ; 
"  how  could  I  suppose  that  Fanny  would  never  meet  with 
my  father  or  mother,  and  how  wicked  I  am  now  to  feel 
ashamed  of  them  !  "  At  last  she  was  able  to  rise  and  take 
her  candle.  "You  are  early  to-night,  Miss  Salter,"  said 
the  Doctor.  "  It  has  struck  ten,  sir,"  said  Ann  Salter, 
blushing,  "  and  I  was  up  very  early  this  morning ;  I  had 
some  writing  to  do."  What  the  writing  had  been  which 
she  left  her  chamber  to  accompHsh  she  did  not  tell  the 
Doctor,  but  when  she  reached  her  room  she  took  out  her 
journal,  and  said  to' herself,  "  How  could  I  be  so  silly  as  to 
%vrite  all  this  stuff  just  because  Evehne  D'Arcy  in  the  novel 
wrote  a  journal,  and  because  Fanny  seemed  to  think  it  so 
interesting  ! "  and  as  she  turned  over  the  leaves,  she  added 
thoughtfully,  "  But  after  all,  I  am  not  persecuted,  and  cer- 


14S  Studies  for  Stories. 

tainly  I  am  not  in  any  great  affliction ;  I  wish  I  had  not 
imitated  Eveline  D'Arcy's  style  of  journalizing.  I  wish  I 
could  behave  naturally,  and  not  be  always  wondering  what 
other  people  will  think  of  me.  How  foolish  Fanny  will 
think  me  now  that  she  has  read  all  this,  and  now  that  she 
has  seen  my  dear  mother  !  Well  I  shall  not  rise  early  to- 
morrow to  write  down  to-day's  experience  ;  I  am  not  going 
to  record  how  Dr.  Deane  said  he  thought  I  "was  discon- 
tented, and  how  Fanny  was  surprised  to  find  my  mother 
was  not  a  gentlewoman.  No  !  I  have  had  enough  of  jour- 
nals for  the  present.     I  shall  not  write  again  in  a  hurry." 

So  saying,  she  put  away  the  luckless  journal.  "  Fanny 
said  I  should  soon  tire  of  it,"  she  thought.  "  Fanny  de- 
clared that  I  should  not  write  it  long,  and  I  almost  made  a 
vow  that  I  would  persevere ;  however,  I  suppose  when 
next  she  asks  to  see  it,  I  shall  have  to  confess  that  I  am 
wrong  and  she  is  right.  I  ai}i  tired  of  it ;  I  will  not  write 
another  word."  Having  formed  this  resolution,  she  went 
to  sleep.  On  the  next  morning  before  breakfast,  observ- 
ing Johnny  hard  at  work  with  a  slate  and  pencil,  she  asked 
him  what  he  was  doing,  and  the  little  urchin  replied  that 
he  was  writing  his  journal.  Whereupon  the  Doctor,  who 
was  carving  shoes  of  ham  for  breakfast,  looked  very  much 
amused,  and  said,  "  Quite  right,  my  boy,  you  could  not  do 
better.     Who  taught  you  to  write  a  journal,  eh  ?" 

"  Nobody  taught  me,  papa,"  said  the  boy ;  "  but  Kitty 
says  she  sees  Miss  Salter  writing  her  journal  when  she 
wakes  in  the  morning ;  but  she  says  I  can't  write  one,  but 
I  shall,  for  Kitty  does,  and  so  does  Emily." 

"  Pass  your  plate  for  a  piece  of  ham,"  said  the  Doctor, 
"  and  tell  me  what  you  put  down  in  your  journal ;  is  it  like 
this :  '  To-day  I  ate  so  much  pudding  that  I  fell  asleep 
over  my  sum ' ;  or,  '  To-day  I  had  a  bad  mark  for  throw- 
ing my  ball  through  the  window  ? ' " 

"  I  don't  want  to  write  that,"  said  the  little  boy,  sullenly ; 


Dr.  Deanes  Governess.  149 

"  I  only  want  to  write  about  having  holidays,  and  going  out 
to  fish  for  sticklebacks,  and  having  shillings  and  sixpences 
given  me." 

"  O,  very  well  then,  you  had  better  write  no  journal  at 
all.  Miss  Salter  does  not  write  down  all  the  pleasant 
things,  and  leave  out  all  the  unpleasant,  I  am  sure." 

"  Do  you  approve  of  journals,  sir  ? "  asked  Miss  Salter, 
not  wishing  to  give  a  direct  answer  to  the  Doctor's  ap- 
peal. 

"  Approve  ?  yes,  Miss  Salter,  if  the  journal  is  one  of 
events,  and  only  sparingly  interspersed  with  records  of 
frames  and  feelings  ;  nothing  is  more  likely  to  help  us  to 
correct  our  faults  than  a  true  description  of  how  we  have 
been  overtaken  by  them.  If  I  am  in  a  passion  to-day,  and 
write  down  all  about  it  when  I  am  cool,  it  makes  me  feel 
ashamed  of  myself 

"  But,  sir,"  interrupted  Miss  Salter,  "  one  often  hears  it 
said  that  the  journals  of  good  people  seem  to  be  written  on 
purpose  for  pubhcation,  and  that  the  world  may  see  how 
deeply  they  repented  of  their  faults  ;  surely  when  people 
write  journals,  it  must  be  with  a  view  to  their  being  seen." 

"  My  young  friend,"  was  the  reply,  "  if  a  man  keep  a  true 
and  impartial  record  of  the  events  of  his  life  and  his  be- 
havior under  them,  he  cannot  possibly  wish  it  to  be  seen, 
even  after  his  death.  His  graver  faults  and  his  deep  re- 
pentance after  them  he  might  be  able  to  give  to  the  world, 
but  his  Httle  petty  feelings  of  envy,  malice,  meanness,  or 
peevishness,  he  could  not  bear  to  expose  to  his  nearest 
and  dearest  friend.  The  deceitfulness  of  his  heart  he  must 
feel  an  anxious  desire  to  conceal,  though  its  wickedness,  if 
he  represented  it  vaguely  and  in  general  terms,  he  might 
not  care  to  keep  to  himself." 

"  Well,  I  must  say,"  observed  Miss  Salter,  "  that  the 
faults  of  those  good  men  whose  lives  I  am  fond  of  reading 
are  always  such  as  I  should  not  mind  confessing  myself." 


150  Studies  for  Stories. 

"  Their  faults  as  represented  in  their  journals.  Very 
true  ;  for  when  people  write  their  real  autobiography,  they 
generally  take  the  utmost  care  not  to  let  it  go  out  of  their 
hands  in  their  lifetime  ;  and  they  either  destroy  it  on  their 
death-beds  or  leave  injunctions  that  it  shall  not  be  opened 
after  their  decease." 

Now  Fanny,  having  read  Ann  Salter's  journal,  would  not 
for  the  world  have  looked  at  her  while  the  discussion  was 
going  on  ;  for  she  could  not  but  remember  that  the  said 
journal,  over  which,  by  the  by,  she  had  shed  many  sym- 
pathetic tears,  was  not  exactly  a  record  of  follies  or  of 
faults  ;  it  was  rather  a  reverse  picture  of  what  Johnny  had 
intended  to  set  down-  in  his  ;  namely,  an  account  of  what 
Eveline  D'Arcy  would  have  called  "  trying  circumstances," 
"  slights,"  and  "  painful  events  connected  with  my  unfor- 
tunate position."  Ann  Salter  was  not  less  uncomfortable 
than  Fanny ;  but,  as  she  was  liable  to  be  swayed  by  every 
one's  opinion,  she  now  began  to  think  she  ought  to  con- 
tinue her  journal.  "  Though  if  I  do,"  she  mentally  added, 
"  I  shall  take  care  that  no  one  ever  sees  it ;  in  fact,  what 
would  be  the  use  of  showing  a  journal  written  on  the 
Doctor's  plan  ?  It  would  make  people  dishke  one,  in- 
stead of  feehng  interested." 

"  I  should  think  it  must  "be  very  difficult,  sir,  to  write 
such  a  journal  as  you  describe,"  she  presently  said,  "  be- 
cause it  would  be  so  terrible  to  think  that,  in  spite  of  all 
one's  care,  it  might  be  found  and  read." 

"And  such  being  the  case,  you  think  the  temptation 
would  be  great  to  be  vague  and  general  in  one's  confes- 
sions, and  not  to  write  truly." 

"  But  it  might  be  done  in  a  cipher,"  continued  Miss 
Salter,  thoughtfully ;  "  I  think  I  know  one  that  I  could 
write  it  in." 

The  Doctor  laughed  ;  he  had  not  expected  that  his  plan 
of  journalizing  would  so  soon  be  put  to  the  test ;  and  he 


D,r.  Deanis  Governess.  151 

would  have  continued  the  subject,  but  that  the  children, 
having  now  finished  their  breakfast,  were  carried  by  their 
punctual  little  governess  to  have  their  faces  washed,  and 
find  their  Bibles,  that  they  might  be  ready  for  family  pray- 
ers. The  children  did  their  lessons  very  well  that  morn- 
ing ;  and  Miss  Salter  never  once  relapsed  into  the  attitude 
of  "  The  Governess."  She  had  just  dismissed  them  to 
have  a  game  at  play  in  the  garden,  when  she  heard  the 
Doctor's  step.  He  was  advancing  rapidly,  and  she  ob- 
served that  Johnny  was  teasing  him  by  asking  some  child- 
ish question  ;  for  the  Doctor  answered,  hurriedly,  "  There, 
go  away ;  papa  cannot  attend  to  you ;  go  and  play  in  the 
hop-garden,  you  and  your  sisters,  and  if  you  are  good 
you  may  have  a  half-holiday."  A  half-holiday!  thought 
Miss  Salter ;  what  can  that  be  for  t  "  Where  's  Cousin 
Fanny  ? "  she  heard  the  Doctor  say.  "  Here,  Fanny,  I 
want  you."  "  Cousin  Fanny  is  gone  out,"  said  the  chil- 
dren, who  were  now  jumping  round  him  for  joy.  "  Tut, 
tut,"  cried  the  Doctor  ;  "  where  is  Miss  Salter  ?  Not  with 
her,  I  hope." 

"  No,  sir,  I  am  here,"  said  Ann  Salter,  rising  and  looking 
out  at  the  window. 

"O,  you  are  at  home.  Miss  Salter,"  said  the  Doctor, 
rather  gravely  ;  his  hurry  seemed  to  subside.  "  Well,"  he 
said,  after  looking  at  her  for  a  moment  in  silence,  "  I  will 
come  in  and  speak  to  you." 

"  I  hope  I  am  not  going  to  have  another  series  of  re- 
marks on  my  depression,"  thought  Ann  Salter;  but  she 
had  not  time  for  many  reflections  ;  the  Doctor  entered. 
"  I  have  just  been  out  in  the  pony  carriage,"  he  observed, 
with  gravity. 

"  What  is  that  to  me,  I  wonder  ? "  thought  Miss  Salter ; 
"  there  is  something  odd  about  the  Doctor's  manner,  I  am 
sure." 

"  Indeed,  sir,"  she  replied. 


152  Studies  for  Stories^ 

"  Yes,"  he  continued  slowly  and  calmly,  "  I  went  to  the 
farm,  —  your  father  had  been  stacking  hay,  —  I  am  not 
alarmed  about  him,  —  but  he  has  met  with  an  accident. 
There,  don't  look  so  frightened,  he  is  not  in  danger,  —  sit 
down." 

Ann  Salter  sat  down  again,  for  she  had  started  up.  She 
felt  faint  and  giddy,  but  the  Doctor's  next  words  enabled 
her  to  control  herself  "  And  your  mother  wants  you  to 
come  over  and  help  her  to  nurse  him  ;  you  can  be  of  great 
use." 

"  I  want  to  know  what  the  injury  is,"  said  the  poor  girl, 
shivering. 

"What  the  injury  is  ?  —  well,  I  can  scarcely  tell  at  pres- 
ent ;  he  was  stunned  at  first,  but  he  soon  came  to  himself, 
and  his  arm  is  broken ;  that  is,  I  hope,  the  extent  of  the 
mischief"  * 

On  his  first  entrance,  the  Doctor  had  rung  the  bell ;  it 
was  now  answered  by  a  female  servant,  who  was  ordered 
to  bring  down  Miss  Salter's  bonnet  and  cloak,  "  and  any- 
thing else  she  will  want  in  a  drive,"  added  the  Doctor. 
Confusion  and  anxiety  kept  Ann  Salter  silent  a  few  mo- 
ments ;  she  felt  that  she  would  like  to  go  over  and  help 
her  mother,  but  her  mind  was  in  a  whirl,  and  when  she 
found  that  her  walking  apparel  was'  produced  in  a  great 
hurry,  and  that  the  gig  was  coming  round,  she  burst  into 
tears,  and  exclaimed,  "  Oh !  I  am  afraid  I  shall  find  my 
dear  father  very  ill ! " 

"I  hope  not,"  replied  the  Doctor;  "and  one  reason 
why  I  am  in  a  hurry  is,  that  I  want  to  take  some  medicine 
over,  and  some  other  things  that  I  require." 

"  And  think  what  a  comfort  you  will  be  to  your  mother, 
Miss  !  "  observed  the  maid. 

Again  the  notion  that  she  could  be  of  use  enabled  her 
to  rally;  and  she  got  into  the  pony-gig,  continuing  to 
shed  tears,  it  is  true,  but  perfectly  mistress  of  herself, 


Dr.  Deanes  Governess.  153 

and  able  to  listen  to  all  the  Doctor's  directions  and  re- 
quirements. 

"  Now,  Miss  Salter,"  he  said,  when  he  had  left  her  a  few 
moments  for  reflection,  "  I  am  taking  you  over  partly  be- 
cause your  poor  mother,  sensible  woman  as  she  is,  was  so 
completely  overpowered  when  she  saw  your  father's  state, 
that  I  feel  she  is  not  fit  to  be  with  him,  at  least  for  the 
present.  The  person  who  is  with  him  should  be  calm, 
and  not  give  way  to  any  display  of  feeling,  even  if  he 
should  say  affecting  things.  '  Ah,  my  poor  dear,'  he  said 
to  your  mother  when  he  came  to  himself,  '  I  am  going  to 
leave  you ! '  He  went  on  to  say  that  he  wished  to  see 
his  children  and  give  them  his  blessing ;  your  poor  mother 
went  into  hysterics,  and  I  had  to  get  the  servant-man  to 
take  her  away,  which  I  was  sorry  for,  because  I  wanted 
help.  Now,  if  your  father  should  talk  in  that  way  to  you, 
do  you  think  you  can  answer  calmly,  '  Father,  you  must 
not  talk  ;  the'  doctor  says  quiet  is  necessary,  and  that  if 
you  can  keep  quiet  you  will  most  hkely  do  well  ?' " 

"  I  will  try,  sir." 

"Do  so,  and  remember  there  is  to  be  no  kissing  and 
weeping  over  him  when  you  first  enter.  You  are  to  walk  in 
with  me,  sit  down  by  him,  just  watch  him,  apply  the  lotions 
according  to  my  directions,  give  him  drink,  and  take  no 
notice  when  he  talks,  excepting  to  tell  him  to  keep  quiet." 

"  Surely  he  will  think  me  unfeehng." 

"  Never  mind  what  he  thinks  ;  do  your  duty.  I  have  to 
tell  you  what  your  duty  is  ;  do  it  even  at  the  risk  of  being 
thought  unfeeling  by  your  sick  father.  His  face  is  a  good 
deal  bruised  and  disfigured ;  but  if  I  tell  you  that  those 
bruises  are  not  of  the  slightest  consequence,  I  suppose  you 
will  not  be  shocked  at  seeing  them." 

"  O  no,  sir,  my  nerves  are  strong." 

"  Yes,  I  know  they  are ;  well,  I  am  putting  you  into  a 
very  responsible  position.  I  have  told  your  poor  mother 
7* 


154  Studies  for  Stories.         , 

she  must  not  attempt  to  go  near  your  father  till  to-morrow, 
for  she  cannot  stand  it,  and  he  gets  excited  when  he  sees 
her.  So  now  follow  your  own  judgment,  and  form  your 
own  conclusions,  venture  to  be  independent.  If  he  is 
worse,  send  for  me  ;  if  any  of  his  friends  come  to  see  him, 
keep  them  out  of  his  chamber ;  if  he  says  he  never  can 
recover,  tell  him  quietly  that  you  believe  he  is  mistaken ; 
and  if  he  wants  to  see  his  sons,  say  he  shall  see  them  to- 
morrow." 

"  Very  well,  sir,  I  will." 

"  Ah,  that  tone  sounds  promising ;  I  am  pleased,  and  I 
believe  I  may  trust  you." 

"  But  if  I  do  all  this,  I  am  to  have  the  comfort  of  hope  ? 
I  am  to  believe  myself  that  he  will  recover  ? " 

"  Humanly  speaking,  I  see  no  reason  why  he  should  not 
get  better,  with  the  blessing  of  God ;  no  reason,  indeed, 
with  proper  attention  to  keep  him  calm  and  quiet ;  but 
every  reason  for  anxiety,  if  his  feelings  are  worked  on,  his 
mind  distracted,  and  his  nerves  flurried.  You  will  sit  up 
with  him  to-night." 

"  O  yes,  sir,  I  am  not  at  all  afraid,  and  I  shall  be  so 
thankful  to  help  mother.  If  she  can  rest,  she  will  be  quite 
herself  again  to-morrow." 

"  To  be  sure,  and  I  shall  come  early  to  see  him,  and 
you  may  depend  on  my  telling  you  what  I  really  think  of 
him ;  as  to  the  children,  I  shall  let  them  have  a  hohday 
to-morrow,  and  you  need  not  be  uneasy  about  them.  I 
dare  say  Fanny  will  hear  them  say  their  lessons." 

"  O,  thank  you,  sir;  you  are  very  good." 

"  And  mind  your  father  does  not  see  you  looking  de- 
pressed ;  that  might  discourage  him,"  continued  the  Doc- 
tor, forgetting  his  late  conversation  with  the  governeJs, 
who,  however,  remembered  it  while  she  rephed,  "  O  no, 
sir,  I  should  not  think  of  such  a  thing" ;  and  immediately 
all  her  foohsh  Httle  fancies,   and  airs,  and  discontents 


Dr.  Deanes  Governess.  155 

flashed  back  upon  her  recollection,  as  such  things  will  on 
the  minds  of  all  of  us  when  the  pressure  of  circumstances 
has  suddenly  broken  off  the  ordinary  thread  of  our  thoughts, 
and  when  we  think  of  the  feelings  and  speeches  of  yester- 
day, as  if  they  had  occurred  ten  years  ago,  and  could  never 
by  any  possibility  be  entertained  by  us  again.  What  did  it 
matter  now  to  Ann  Salter  that  the  servants  knew  she  re- 
ceived a  salary  for  her  services  ;  that  she  was  in  what  she 
was  pleased  to  consider  a  "  dependant's  position,"  and  that 
the  beloved  parent  to  whom  she  was  going  wore  a  white 
coat  instead  of  a  black  one,  and  was  not  what  is  called  a 
gentleman  ? 

But  though  Ann  Salter  felt  comforted  in  the  belief  that 
her  father's  life  was  not  in  danger,  and  that  she  was  going 
to  be  of  use  to  both  her  parents,  she  felt  her  heart  beat 
fast,  and  her  limbs  shake  as  they  drove  up  to  the  door  of 
the  farm-house  ;  and  she  thought  she  would  have  given 
anything  in  the  world  if  she  might  have  retired  only  for 
five  minutes  to  pray  for  help  from  above,  and  for  com- 
posure and  skill  to  meet  this  emergency. 

This  she  could  not  have ;  the  Doctor  ushered  her  at 
once  into  the  kitchen,  where  sat  her  poor  mother  with  her 
arms  flung  on  the  dresser,  and  her  face  resting  upon  them. 
She  sobbed  and  wept  afresh  at  the  sight  of  her  daughter,  and 
exclaimed,  "  Ah,  poor  thing,  she  does  not  know  how  bad 
her  father  is  !  Ann,  my  dear,  your  poor  father  was  very 
near  being  killed  this  morning." 

"  Yes,  I  know,  dear  mother,"  said  Ann,  striving  to  speak 
calmly,  and  distressed  to  see  her  mother  so  helpless. 

"  She  hardly  looks  as  if  she  did  know  it,  Doctor,"  ob- 
served the  poor  woman,  as  if  hurt  at  her  daughter's  self- 
cpmmand. 

"  She  is  come  to  help  you,  and  to  nurse  her  father,"  re- 
plied the  Doctor,  addressing  both  mother  and  daughter, 
for  he  saw  that  the  fortitude  of  the  latter  was  ready  to  give 


156  Studies  for  Stories. 

way ;  "  and  she  can  be  of  no  use  if  she  is  not  calm.  Come, 
Mrs.  Salter,  I  have  brought  you  a  composing  draught,  and 
when  your  neighbor  comes  to  help  you  in  the  house  do  you 
go  to  bed." 

"  She  is  come ;  she  is  sitting  by  my  poor  husband," 
sobbed  the  wife. 

"Then  I  will  send  her  down  to  you.  Come  with  me, 
Miss  Salter." 

Ann  Salter  only  waited  to  give  her  mother  one  kiss,  and 
then  stole  up  stairs  after  the  Doctor.  The  door  of  her 
father's  chamber  was  wide  open  ;  she  saw  him  lying  on 
his  bed  breathing  hard.  There  were  no  curtains  to  the 
window,  but  a  heavy  shawl  had  been  fastened  before  it  to 
darken  the  room,  and  the  brown  curtains  of  the  bed  were 
let  down.  The  window  was  open,  as  the  slight  movement 
of  the  shawl  sufficiently  proved  ;  but  the  poor  restless 
patient  was  so  much  in  the  shadow  that  at  first  his  daugh- 
ter could  not  distinguish  his  bruised  features,  and  their 
troubled  expression.  A  woman  was  sitting  by  the  bed- 
side, fanning  him,  for  it  was  very  hot.  Dr.  Deane  took 
the  fan  from  her,  and  sent  her  down,  putting  Ann  Salter 
in  her  place.  He  then  gave  her  some  directions,  showed 
her  the  medicines,  remarked  that  her  father's  head  was  not 
now  very  clear,  and  that  if  he  did  not  notice  her  presence 
she  need  not  draw  his  attention  to  it.  He  then  shook 
hands  with  her  and  left  her. 

What  her  feelings  were  as  she  saw  him  gradually  going 
down  the  stairs,  and  afterwards  when  she  heard  him  drive 
away,  it  would  be  impossible  to  describe.  She  was  now 
left  virtually  with  the  whole  responsibihty  of  the  case  on 
her  own  hands  :  it  was  not  yet  one  o'clock,  and  she  knew 
she  should  not  see  Dr.  Deane  again  till  the  next  morning ; 
his  prescriptions  had  been  already  made  up,  and  she  should 
not  even  have  the  comfort  of  seeing  the  apothecary's  boy ; 
yet  when  she  had  sat  a  quarter  of  an  hour  by  her  farther 


Dr.  Dearies  Governess.  157 

(who  happily  for  himself  and  for  her  was  now  in  a  half 
doze),  she  felt  equal  to  her  task  ;  she  had  found  the  oppor- 
tunity for  prayer  that  she  had  so  ardently  desired,  and  she 
knew  that  her  proving  equal  to  her  task  was  of  the  utmost 
consequence  ;  so  for  more  than  two  hours  she  sat  fanning 
her  father,  ready  to  show  him  a  steady  and  almost  cheerful 
face  the  moment  he  awoke.  His  rest  was  broken,  he  was 
feverish  and  evidently  in  pain  ;  she  sometimes  thought  he 
was  more  stupefied  than  sleepy,  and  the  weary  hours 
dragged  on  till  she  knew  by  the  sounds  in  the  farm-yard 
that  it  must  be  past  four  o'clock,  before  there  was  any 
change  in  the  patient,  or  she  had  any  person  to  reheve  her 
fropi  her  watch. 

At  last  the  neighbor  came  up,  and  beckoned  her  out  of 
the  room,  saying  that  the  tea  was  ready.  She  ran  down, 
and  was  very  glad  of  some  refreshment,  for  she  had  not 
dined.  Two  of  her  brothers  were  in  the  kitchen,  and  from 
them  she  learned  that  her  mother  was  gone  to  bed  and 
had  fallen  asleep ;  she  stayed  down  but  a  very  few  min- 
utes, and  as  she  came  up  stairs  she  observed  that  her 
father's  eyes  were  open,  and  that  the  neighbor  was  saying, 
"  How  do  you  feel  yourself  now,  Mr.  Salter  ? "  "  I  feel 
very  bad,"  was  the  reply,  "  and  very  thirsty ;  I  could  fancy 
a  glass  of  ale  !  " 

"  I  '11  go  and  draw  some,"  said  the  neighbor ;  "  a  glass 
of  your  own  home-brewed  can  do  you  no  harm." 

Upon  this  Ann  Salter  was  obliged  to  propose  toast-and- 
water  as  a  substitute,  and  the  neighbor  appearing  inclined 
to  argue  the  point,  she  was  terrified  to  see  how  rapidly  her 
father's  face  flushed,  how  excited  he  became,  and  how 
angrily  he  discussed  the  point. 

"  O,  do  go,  do  go,"  she  implored ;  "  do  leave  him,  and 
let  me  try  to  calm  him  ! "  But  it  was  now  too  late  ;  he  was 
thoroughly  roused  from  his  previous  quietude,  his  pulse 
quickened ;  he  complained  of  violent  headache,  and  soon 


158  Studies  for  Stories. 

began  to  ramble  in  his  speech.  This  was  no  time  for  tears 
or  weak  fears  with  his  daughter ;  she  had  been  told  what 
to  do  under  any  circumstances  that  were  likely  to  arise, 
and  the  neighbor,  now  humble  and  distressed  at  the  mis- 
take she  had  made,  was  anxiously  bent  on  giving  what 
assistance  she  could. 

Leeches  were  put  on ;  and  in  ceaseless  exertion  and 
anxiety  th^  next  few  hours  were  passed ;  the  long  summer 
twilight  had  settled  into  darkness,  and  the  evening  star 
was  shining  through  the  crevice  between  the  shawl  and 
the  window-frame,  before  peace  and  silence  were  restored 
in  the  sick-chamber,  or  Ann  Salter  could  sit  down  by  her 
father's  bed. 

And  yet  the  time  had  been  so  fully  occupied,  that  though 
she  was  fatigued,  she  had  not  felt  it  to  be  long ;  and  when 
some  supper  was  brought  up  to  her,  and  she  was  told  that 
it  was  eleven  o'clock,  she  could  only  think  of  the  past 
morning  and  evening  as  of  a  dream.  She  stole  to  the  top 
of  the  stairs,  all  the  household  were  in  bed,  excepting  the 
brother  who  had  brought  her  supper.  "You  had  better 
go  and  take  a  turn  outside  while  I  sit  with  father,"  said 
he  ;  "  and  there  is  a  box  come  for  you,  from  Dr.  Deane's  ; 
it  came  some  time  ago,  and  the  man  who  brought  it  said 
Miss  Fanny  Deane  had  sent  it." 

Ann  Salter  could  not  make  up  her  mind  to  go  and 
walk,  even  under  her  father's  window ;  but  she  went  to 
see  what  Fanny  had  sent  her,  and  found  a  kind  little  note, 
some  articles  of  dress,  and  two  or  three  interesting  books, 
that  Fanny  thought  she  would  be  glad  of;  moreover,  her 
journal. 

She  took  out  a  shawl  and  a  hood,  for  in  spite  of  the  heat 
she  felt  the  want  of  warm  clothing  in  her  father's  room  ; 
and  she  took  out  her  journal,  and  not  wishing  it  to  lie 
about,  she  brought  it  up  to  her  father's  room,  and  laid 
it  on  the  table.     Then  she  dismissed  her  brother,  and 


Dr.  Deanes  Governess.  159 

through  the  weary  night  sat  patiently  watching  her  father  ; 
sometimes  he  dozed,  sometimes  he  was  wakeful  and  rest- 
less ;  but  he  always  found  her  calm  and  steady,  attentive 
and  cheerful. 

Towards  morning,  when  the  early  dawn  began  to  wake 
the  birds,  fatigue  made  her  head  droop,  and  her  eye  now 
and  then  fill  with  tears  ;  once  she  dozed  a  few  moments 
and  began  to  dream,  but  starting  up,  she  stole  to  the  win- 
dow, for  she  heard  a  fluttering  noise  :  it  was  the  leaves  of 
he»  journal,  the  summer  air  coming  in  had  lifted  the  paper 
cover,  and  it  lay  open  before  her.  It  had  also  displaced 
the  folds  of  the  shawl,  and  one  slanting  sunbeam  lay  across 
the  page  ;  mechanically,  Ann  Salter's  tired  eyes  rested  on 
the  illuminated  sentence;  it  ran  thus: — '■'' August  2>d. — 
The  children  were  idle  at  their  lessons  to-day,  and  Johnnie 
was  troublesome  and  mischievous.  I  do  not  like  the  new 
housemaid's  manner  ;  it  is  too  famihar,  and  adds  to  the  dis- 
comfort of  my  position.  We  know  that  trials  are  appointed 
for  all ;  none  are  free  from  them,  and  we  strive  to  be  re- 
signed under  them  ;  yet  it  must  be  allowed  that  some  of 
the  dispensations  of  Divine  Providence  are  more  difficult 
to  bear  than  others,  and  I  do  sometimes  feel  a  wish  that 
some  other  than  the  peculiar  trial  of  dependence,  and  the 
slights  and  annoyances  it  gives  rise  to,  had  been  appointed 
for  me.  Any  other  dispensation,  I  often  think,  would  be 
easier  to  bear,  and  I  cannot  but  feel  a  wish  that  the  nature 
of  my  trial  might  be  changed  ;  but  let  me  not  be  unduly 
depressed  ;  let  me  try  to  conduct  myself  with  gentleness 
and  resignation." 

"  If  the  kitchen  fire  was  alight,  I  would  burn  this," 
thought  the  weary  little  nurse. 

"  Annie,  Annie,"  moaned  the  voice  from  the  bed,  "  my 
mouth  is  so  dry  ;  give  me  some  drink,  child  ;  I  want  some 
drink." 


CHAPTER    IV. 


THREE  days  had  passed,  days  of  deep  anxiety  and 
much  exertion  to  Ann  Salter  and  her  mother.  The 
farmer  had  received  greater  injuries  than  had  first  appeared ; 
but  he  was  getting  on  favorably,  and  though  entirely  unused 
to  illness,  was  very  patient,  excepting  when  the  thought  of 
his  farm  came  into  his  head,  and  then  he  could  not  help 
showing  the  restlessness  and  harass  of  mind  that  oppressed 
him. 

After  the  first  day  and  night,  Mrs.  Salter  entirely  recov- 
ered her  self-possession,  and  was  unwearied  in  her  care  of 
her  husband  ;  but  more  was  required  in  his  sick-room  than 
could  be  done  by  one  person  ;  and  his  daughter  sometimes 
found  the  various  duties  now  devolving  on  her  almost  too 
much  for  her  strength.  There  was  the  servant  to  look 
after ;  for,  as  Mrs.  Salter  justly  said  of  her,  she  had  no 
head-piece,  and  though  professing  to  understand  a  dairy, 
would  spoil  a  whole  churning,  of  butter  if  she  was  not  well 
attended  to ;  then  she  loved  to  gossip  outside  the  back- 
door with  the  farm-laborers,  leaving  the  household  work 
undone. 

"Ann,  Ann,"  Mrs.  Salter  would  call  gently  down  the 
stairs,  "  have  you  seen  that  Emmy  has  scalded  the  milk- 
pans  ? "  or,  "  Have  you  seen  that  Emmy  has  fed  those 
turkeys  ? "  or,  "  Have  you  looked  after  Emmy,  and  made 
her  kill  those  young  cockerels  ready  for  to-morrow's  mar- 
ket ? "  Sometimes  the*  answer  would  be,  "  No,  mother  ; 
but  I  will  see  what  she  is  about  when  I  have  weighed  the 
butter  for  to-morrow,"  or,   "When  I  have  plucked  the 


Dr.  Deanes  Governess.  i6l 

chickens,  —  they  are  nearly  finished."  Sometimes  it  would 
be,  "  No,  mother ;  but  I  will  scald  the  milk-pans  myself, 
for  the  grains  are  just  come,  arid  Emmy  is  gone  with  them 
to  feed  the  pigs." 

Sometimes  when  Mrs.  Salter  came  down  for  any  little 
nicety  which  Ann  had  prepared  for  her  father,  she  would 
sink  into  a  chair,  look  admiringly  at  her  daughter,  and  ex- 
claim, with  tender  pride  :  "  Deary  me,  what  a  thing  it  is  to 
have  a  daughter  !  Here  I  come  down  and  find  everything 
done  to  my  hands,  and  her  stirring  about  as  busy  as  a  bee. 
Ann,  dear,  I  'm  glad  you  have  n't  forgotten  how  to  cook." 

"  O  no,  mother  ! "  would  be  the  cheerful  answer ;  "  no 
fear  of  that." 

"  Ah  !  I  wish  your  dear  father  and  me  could  afford  to 
have  you  at  home  always.  Dick,  you  're  pleased  to  have 
Ann  at  home,  I  know  !  " 

Dick,  a  great  stupid  youth  of  sixteen,  his  mother's  pet 
when  her  daughter  was  away,  would  answer,  shaking  his 
fair  hair  and  heavy  head,  "I  should  rather  expect  so, 
mother." 

Then  Mrs.  Salter  would  proceed  to  carry  the  little  tray 
with  its  savory  contents  to  her  husband,  being  dutifully  fol- 
lowed by  Dick,  who  would  bear  the  salt  or  sugar,  as  the 
case  might  be,  and  who  never  would  go  up  and  see  his  fa- 
ther unless  he  had  some  such  pretence  for  presenting  him- 
self ;  for  he  was  very  shy ;  and  to  walk  up  to  his  father's 
bed  with  no  other  object  than  to  say,  "  How  do  you  feel 
yourself  to-day,  father .?  I  hope  you  're  mending,"  would 
have  appeared  to  him  a  formidable  and  affecting  cere- 
mony. 

When  they  were  gone,  Ann  Salter's  face  would  cloud 
with  involuntary  anxiety,  and,  busy  as  she  was,  a  number  of 
moral  reflections  would  crowd  into  her  mind, — reflections 
on  being  discontented  with  one's  lot,  —  reflections  on  the 
folly  of  not  knowing  when  one  was  well  off,  and  on  the 

K 


1 62  Studies  for  Stories. 

happy  lot  of  a  governess  as  compared  with  the  housekeeper 
and  factotum  in  a  farm.  It  was  not  that  she  did  not  love 
her  parents  and  her  brothers,  —  not  that  she  did  not  feel 
willing  to  exert  herself,  both  strenuously  and  cheerfully,  in 
their  behalf,  —  but  that  she  perceived  how  much  more  care- 
fully one  eats  bread  in  one's  father's  house,  if  he  is  poor, 
than  in  another  man's  house,  if  he  is  rich.  In  the  Doctor's 
house  she  had  none  of  the  cares  of  providing  ;  none  of  the 
anxieties  of  possession ;  her  meal  and  her  salary  were  as- 
sured to  her.  Here  she  was  anxious  about  every  trifle 
that  passed  under  her  hand.  "  If  I  spoil  these  cream 
cheeses,  there  is  so  much  money  lost  that  should  have 
gone  towards  the  rent."  "  If  \ve  cannot  sell  the  poultry 
this  week,  how  are  we  to  pay  the  shoe-bill  1 " 

And  then  would  come  another  set  of  reflections,  which 
would  run  thus  :  Supposing  that  father  does  not  get  well 
enough  to  attend  to  the  farm,  and  mother  has  to  hire  some- 
body to  do  it  for  him,  then  they  will  not  be  able  to  afibrd 
to  keep  Emmy ;  and  what  if  I  should  be  obliged  to  come 
home  and  do  the  work  ?  Of  all  my  ten  brothers,  there  is 
not  one  that  can  take  father's  place.  What  a  sad  pity  it  is 
that  those  of  every  family  who  have  the  most  energy,  and 
can  be  worst  spared,  are  those  that  go  away  !  There  are 
Tom  and  James  in  Austraha.  Then  there  are  Will  and 
George  and  AHck  in  Canada,  doing  very  well,  and  Edward 
just  gone  out  to  them.  Well,  here  are  Sam  and  Joe  at 
home,  only  because  father  could  not  trust  them  out  of  his 
sight,  poor  fellows  ;  and  there  is  Dick,  a  mere  spoilt  child. 
I  see  nothing  for  it  but  for  me  to  give  up  my  situation ; 
and  O,  what  a  misfortune  that  will  be  !  I  shall  soon  lose 
a  great  deal  that  I  have  learned,  and,  perhaps,  become 
coarse  with  hard  work,  and  low-spirited  for  want  of  some- 
times hearing  a  little  intellectual  conversation.  I  hope  it 
will  not  be  my  duty  to  come  home  ;  I  cannot  bear  the 
thought  of  it. 


Dk  Deanes  Governess.  163 

"Your  servant,  Miss  Ann,"  said  a  man's  voice  behind 
her,  as  she  was  one  day  indulging  in  some  such  reflections 
as  these.  Ann  Salter  turned  suddenly,  and  encountered 
tlie  blushing  face  of  William  Dobson. 

"  I  just  took  the  liberty  to  come  and  inquire  after  Mr. 
Salter,"  said  the  young  man. 

"You  are  very  good,"  rephed  Ann  Salter  ;  "my  father  is 
better  to-day,  but  his  arm  is  very  painful.  Will  you  sit 
down  ? " 

William  Dobson  sat  down ;  they  were  in  the  kitchen ; 
Ann  Salter  had  been  stirring  a  pudding,  and  had  one  of 
her  mother's  aprons  tied  before  her.  The  consciousness 
of  how  different  her  dress  arid  occupation  were  from  any- 
thing he  had  seen  in  her  before,  made  her  blush  with  a  not 
unnatural  feeling  of  shame  and  shyness  ;  but  she  was  re- 
lieved when  he  said,  "  I  need  not  ask  how  you  are,  Miss 
Ann,  for  though  you  must  have  had  a  great  deal  of  anx- 
iety, I  never  saw  you  looking  better  :  activity  seems  to  suit 
you." 

"  I  am  very  well,  thank  you,"  she  answered ;  and  then 
thought  within  herself,  "  Shall  I  go  on  stirring  this  pud- 
ding ?  or,  shall  I  let  it  spoil  because  I  am  too  proud  to  stir 
it  before  him  ? "  Good  sense  prevailed :  she  took  up  the 
spoon,  and  there  was  a  long  pause.  She  did  not  think  it 
her  duty  to  find  conversation,  but  quietly  waited  till  her 
visitor  spoke.  At  last  he  said,  "  I  had  a  long  letter  from 
your  brother  Tom  this  morning.  Miss  Ann,  and  thinking 
you  might  not  have  heard  this  mail,  I  thought  you  would 
be  glad  to  see  it." 

Ann  Salter  was  glad.  Tom  was  her  favorite  brother, 
and  she  listened  to  his  letter  with  delight.  "  How  pleased 
mother  will  be  to  hear  it ! "  she  observed. 

"  He  is  going  to  write  to  her,"  replied  William  Dobson. 
"  He  says  so  in  the  postscript." 

"  Not  on  the  old  subject  of  our  going  to  Australia,  I 
hope,"  exclaimed  Ann  Salter,  hastily. 


164  Studies  for  Stories. 

"  Why,  yes,  it  is  on  that  subject,"  said  William  Dobson ; 
"  and  if  you  have  anything  to  say  against  it  to  your  par- 
ents, Miss  Ann,  perhaps  I  had  better  read  what  he  says, 
and  then  you  will  have  the  start  of  your  brother.  He  says, 
'■  P.S.  —  I  have  half  written  a  long  letter  to  my  mother, 
urging  her  to  come  out  here  ;  for  I  know  if  she  was  willing 
to  leave  the  old  place,  my  father  would  be  heartily  glad  to 
begin  life  afresh  over  here.  It  is  of  no  use  begging  you 
to  come,  old  fellow ;  you  are  too  well  off  where  you  are  ; 
but  if  my  family  could  come  over,  it  would  be  the  making 
of  them,  and  I  shall  leave  no  stone  unturned  to  get  them 
to  emigrate.' " 

Ann  Salter  was  silent.  She  saw  that  her  brother  had 
unconsciously  chosen  a  time  for  his  letter  when  it  was 
almost  sure  to  prevail;  and,  much  as  she  dreaded  the 
notion  of  living  at  home,  and  working  as  she  now  did,  the 
thought  of  going  out  to  Australia  was  more  unwelcome 
still. 

Wilham  Dobson  continued :  "I  do  not  think  your 
mother  would  ever  consent  to  go,  Miss  Ann,  if  she  could 
not  take  you  with  her ;  "  (very  true,  thought  Ann  Salter  ; ) 
"  and  I  may  say,  as  I  've  said  before,"  continued  the  young 
farmer,  smoothing  his  hat  with  his  sleeve,  "  I  may  say, 
if  I  could  induce  you  to  stay"  —  here  he  hesitated  (I  have 
known  him  all  my  life,  thought  Ann  Salter)  —  "I  should 
think  myself  a  very  lucky  fellow"  (but  then,  as  Fanny 
SAID,  he  is  not  a  gentleman,  thought  Ann  Salter);  "and 
my  mother  would  be  equally  pleased,"  stammered  out  Mr. 
Dobson.  (But,  to  be  sure,  if  Fanny  could  see  me  now, 
proceeded  Ann  Salter,  she  would  not  think  me  much  hke 
a  gentlewoman.)  But  whether  she  would  have  thought 
proper  to  make  any  answer  to  this  speech  will  never  now 
be  known  ;  for  it  was  but  just  brought  to  a  conclusion 
when  Emmy,  that  roughest  of  mortals  with  the  softest  of 
names,  rushed  into  the  kitchen  and  exclaimed :  "  O,  Mr. 


Dr,  Deanes  Governess.  165 

Dobson  and  Miss  Ann,  here's  Doctor  Deane  just  driving 
up  to  the  door,  and  that  young  lady  with  a  white  veil,  that 
he  brought  once  before  ;  and  the  parlor  shutters  are  not 
opened,  I  quite  forgot  them;  and  the  young  brood  of 
chickens  that  was  hatched  yesterday  was  a  week  have  got 
into  the  passage,  and  they  are  now  sitting  on  the  door- 
mat ;  and,  if  you  please,  am  I  to  show  the  young  lady  into 
the  kitchen  ?  " 

Ann  Salter  stood  a  moment,  unable  to  move.  That 
Fanny  should  see  her  with  a  checked  apron  tied  before 
her,  her  sleeves  tucked  up,  and  she  and  Mr.  Dobson  both 
inhabiting  a  kitchen,  was  too  much  for  her  philosophy. 
The  first  thing  that  occurred  to  her  was  to  snatch  up  the 
pudding,  and  put  it  into  the  oven  ;  and  that  done  a  loud 
noise,  as  of  a  whole  brood  of  chickens  running  into  the 
kitchen,  and  their  mother  after  them,  forced  her  to  turn 
round  and  encounter  Fanny,  who  was  entering  in  the  wake 
of  the  poultry,  and  blushing  quite  as  much  as  her  friend 
Ann. 

"  My  uncle  is  gone  up  stairs,"  said  Fanny,  stooping  to 
kiss  Ann  Salter,  "  and  he  told  me  to  come  in  here ;  pray 
excuse  the  intrusion." 

"  Pray  do  not  call  it  one,"  was  the  reply  ;  "  but  sit  down 
here  if  you  have  no  objection,  for  I  have  no  other  place  to 
ask  you  into  to-day." 

Fanny  sat  down.  "  Now,  why  cannot  I  feel  at  my  ease  ? " 
thought  poor  Ann  Salter.  "  I  am  doing  my  duty ;  why 
cannot  I  be  independent  of  other  people's  opinions  ? " 

Mr.  Dobson  had  made  his  exit  through  another  door. 
Ann  Salter  took  off  her  apron,  and  washed  her  hands, 
while  Fanny  talked  on  indifferent  subjects,  and  ended  some 
anecdotes  of  the  children,  by  saying :  "  Ah,  dear  Ann,  it  is 
such  a  trouble  keeping  the  children  in  order  ;  they  do  not 
respect  me,  you  know,  because  they  are  aware  of  my  de- 
ficiencies as  compared  with  you.     But,"  continued  Fanny, 


1 66  Studies  for  Stories, 

looking  about  her,  "  I  know  very  well,  dear,  that  it  will 
be  a  sad  trial  to  you  to  come  back  again,  so  I  ought  not 
to  be  in  any  hurry  about  it." 

"  A  sad  trial,"  echoed  Ann  Salter  involuntarily.  "  O, 
Fanny,  how  can  you  think  so  ?  If  my  dear  father  was  only 
well  enough  to  be  left,  I  should  be  so  thankful  to  be  with 
you  again." 

"  Indeed  !  "  said  Fanny,  with  rather  a  blank  face. 

"  It  was  extremely  good  and  kind  of  the  Doctor  to  let 
me  come,"  proceeded  the  governess,  "  and  it  is  my  duty 
and  my  wish  to  be  here  ;  but,  O  Fanny,  I  have  changed 
my  rtlind  about  a  good  many  things  since  I  left  you  ;  I  now 
see  how  sinful  and  how  discontented  I  was." 

"  You  were  sometimes  a  good  deal  depressed,  dear,"  said 
Fanny,  recurring  to  the  old  word ;  "  but  I  think  that  was 
not  unnatural." 

"  It  was  unnatural,"  persisted  Ann  Salter,  "  and  it  was 
wicked  ;  but  I  am  punished  ;  for  O,  Fanny,  I  am  afraid  I 
shall  never  go  back  to  those  happy  duties  and  that  pleasant 
house  again."  And  here,  having  controlled  her  feelings  as 
long  as  she  could,  the  governess  burst  into  a  sudden  fit  of 
crying,  and  sobbed  as  if  her  heart  would  break. 

Fanny,  always  affectionate,  was  doubly  so  now.  She  was 
not  very  acute  nor  very  observant,  but  she  saw  on  this  oc- 
casion what  was  the  real  state  of  the  case.  She  even  dis- 
covered that  Ann  Salter  was  ashamed  of  herself  for  some 
of  those  fine-lady  airs  which  circumstances  had  so  roughly 
compelled  her  to  lay  aside,  and  she  congratulated  herself 
on  her  cleverness  in  this  respect.  "  So  you  will  really  be 
glad  to  come  back,  dear  Annie  ?  "  she  exclaimed.  "  Well, 
I  am  sure  I  shall  be  delighted  when  you  can  come  ;  and, 
no  doubt,  that  will  be  soon,  for  your  father  is  getting  bet- 
ter ;  and  when  you  come  we  will  keep  journals  again,  and 
see  how  cheerful  we  can  possibly  be  on  all  occasions,  in- 
stead of  feeling  it  to  be  rather  a  graceful  and  interesting 
thing  to  be  depressed." 


Dr.  Deanes  Governess.  167 

Ann  Salter  was  very  anxious  to  efface  the  appearance  of 
redness  about  her  eyes,  lest  her  mother  should  see  it,  and 
ask  the  cause  ;  so  when  she  had  looked  at  the  pudding  in 
the  oven,  she  asked  Fanny  to  come  and  walk  with  her  in 
the  garden.  There  was  a  smoothly-clipped  fruithedge  in 
this  garden  and  a  row  of  cabbage-roses  grew  by  it.  Ann 
Salter  gathered  some  of  their  most  lovely  buds  for  Fanny, 
and  then  the  two  girls  sat  down  in  the  alcove,  which  termi- 
nated the  hedge,  and  where  the  farmer  had  spent  many 
a  pleasant  summer  evening  in  smoking  his  pipe.  Fanny 
thought  this  a  very  good  opportunity  for  telHng  her  friend 
of  the  conversation  that  she  had  held  with  her  uncle  On  the 
words  depe7ident  and  independent.,  and  to  her  great  joy  the 
governess  declared  that  she  was  quite  of  the  Doctor's 
opinion. 

The  two  girls  were  then  deep  in  conversation,  and  the 
governess  had  just  been  persuaded  to  say  that  she  thought 
it  possible  her  father  might  be  well  enough  for  her  to 
return  to  her  duties  in  a  week,  when  they  saw  the  Doctor 
coming  along  the  grass-walk  towards  them.  He  looked 
business-hke  and  thoughtful,  and  when  he  reached  the 
arbor,  he  said,  "Sit  still,  young  ladies.  Miss  Salter,  I 
have  something  to  say  to  you  that  I  am  much  more  sorry 
to  say  than  you  will  be  to  hear." 

"  Than  I  shall  be  to  hear,  sir  ? "  was  all  Ann  Salter  could 
reply. 

"  Yes,  yes,  indeed  ;  I  know  that  very  well.  The  fact  is, 
your  father  has  said  to  me  several  times,  '  I  am  ashamed 
to  keep  my  dear  girl  away  from  her  duties,  and  I  am  afraid 
it  must  put  you  to  a  good  deal  of  inconvenience.'  I  have 
always  answered,  '  I  must  wait  till  she  is  set  at  hberty ; 
we  must  not  quarrel  with  God's  appointments.'  Well, 
Miss  Salter,  your  father,  though  he  has  no  unfavorable 
symptoms,  will  require  all  your  mother's  time  and  atten- 
tion for  at  least  six  weeks  to  come ;  and  he  yesterday 


1 68  Studies  for  Stories. 

asked  me  such  direct  questions  that  I  felt  bound  to  tell 
him  so.  I  was  therefore,  I  confess,  not  surprised,  when 
to-day  he  said  to  me  that  he  felt  his  wife  must  have  help, 
and  he  saw  he  must  ask  to  have  you  set  at  liberty,  for  that 
you  were  your  mother's  right  hand ;  and,  in  short,  such 
a  pleasure  to  your  parents,  so  cheerful,  and  so  evidently 
happy  with  them,  that  they  rejoiced  in  the  opportunity  of 
keeping  you,  though  the  cause  was  a  painful  one.  So, 
Miss  Salter,  though  it  is  with  regret,  I  feel  that  I  can  do 
no  less  than  give  you  your  liberty ;  and  I  am  rejoiced  to 
find  that  you  are  so  well  pleased  to  be  at  home,  for  I  had 
scarcely  expected  it  would  be  so." 

"  Uncle,"  said  Fanny  quietly,  "  is  the  matter  perfectly 
decided  on?" 

"  Perfectly,  my  dear ;  and  I  left  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Salter 
in  high  spirits  to  think  how  glad  their  daughter  would  be 
to  hear  the  news." 

Fanny,  by  a  glance,  directed  her  uncle's  eyes  to  the  face 
of  his  late  governess.  It  was  pale,  and  altogether  dis- 
tressed. She  was  making  a  great  effort  to  take  the  news 
quietly,  since  it  referred  to  a  thing  inevitable,  and  evi- 
dently not  to  be  avoided.  The  Doctor  made  a  movement 
of  impatience,  as  if  he  would  have  said,  "There  is  no 
understanding  people  ;  I  always  seem  to  be  giving  pain 
where  I  expected  to  give  pleasure,"  • 

Miss  Salter  presently  recovered  herself,  and  said  to 
him,  "  I  am  much  obliged  to  you,  sir,  for  so  kindly  acced- 
ing to  my  father's  wishes.  I  hope  yo"u  will  meet  with  a 
superior  governess  to  myself  for  the  children,  and  I  am 
very  sensible  of  the  advantages  I  had  in  your  house." 

But  then  she  looked  so  pale  and  shocked  that  further 
congratulations  were  impossible,  and,  as  condolences  would 
have  been  out  of  place,  Fanny  only  said,  in  rising  to  take 
leave,  "  I  shall  come  and  see  you  as  soon  as  I  can,  dear 
Annie,  and  I  hope  you  will  spend  the  day  with  me  when 
you  can  ;  I  shall  be  quite  dull  without  you." 


Dr.  Deanes  Governess.  169 

"You  are  very  kind,"  said  the  late  governess,  with  a 
sigh,  as  she  preceded  them  to  the  house.  Yet  when  they 
reached  the  door,  saw  the  pony-chaise  standing  there,  and 
Mrs.  Salter,  with  a  radiant  face,  waiting  beside  it,  Fanny 
admired  the  self-command  and  good  feeling  with  which, 
when  the  mother  said,  "  Well,  Annie  dear,  have  you  heard 
the  news  ? "  the  daughter  instantly  replied,  with  a  smile, 
"  Yes,  dear  mother ;  and  I  hope  you  will  find  me  a  help  in 
the  house." 

"  That  I  shall,"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Salter  heartily ;  "  a  help 
and  a  pleasure  too  ;  no  fear  of  that." 

As  Fanny  and  her  uncle  drove  away,  the  latter  said,  "  I 
suppose  I  never  did  thoroughly  understand  Miss  Salter, 
and  never  shall.  Now,  who  would  have  supposed  she  did 
not  wish  to  stay  at  home,  after  hearing  her  mother's  ac- 
count of  her  ?  Besides,  she  always  disliked  a  state  of  de- 
j)endence,  as  she  called  it ;  at  least,  I  was  always  given  to 
understand  so  ;  but  women  are  quite  incomprehensible.  I 
suppose  that  is  their  prerogative." 

"  I  believe  she  has  changed  her  mind,  uncle,  on  that 
subject,"  said  Fanny. 

"  Changed  her  mind  !  Well,  that  is  another  of  the 
prerogatives  of  her  sex.  I  really  thought  I  could  do  no 
less  than  meet  the  old  man's  wishes ;  and  I  supposed, 
from  what  h»-  said,  that  it  was  for  the  happiness  of  all 
parties." 

"  And  so  it  will  be,  perhaps,  uncle,"  said  Fanny,  demurely. 
"  But,  uncle,  you  are  now  in  want  of  a  governess,  —  are 
you  not  ? " 

"  To  be  sure  I  am,  child." 

"  Suppose  you  try  me^^  said  Fanny ;  "  for  since  you 
talked  to  me  about  my  being  dependent,  and  Annie 
being  independent,  I  have  often  wanted  to  be  independ- 
ent too." 

The  Doctor  was  so  astonished  at  this  speech,  that  he 
8 


1 70  Studies  for  Stories. 

actually  stopped  the  pony-carriage,  and  stared  at  his  niece 
for  full  a  minute  in  mute  surprise.  Fanny  was  put  out  of 
countenance  by  this,  but  only  for  the  moment,- and  before 
the  Doctor  had  recovered  himself  sufficiently  to  say  a 
word,  she  added  :  — 

"  It  would  be  a  very  good  thing  for  me,  uncle  ;  for  you 
know  I  often  feel  dreadfully  weary  for  want  of  something 
to  do  ;  and  then  it  would  keep  the  situation  open  for  Ann 
Salter,  who,  in  six  months  or  so,  may  possibly  be  able  to 
take  it  again.  And  then,  supposing  such  a  thing,  as  that 
I  ever  had  to  earn  my  living,  could  I  have  a  better  prepara- 
tion ?  " 

"  All  true,  perfectly  true,  Fanny,"  said  the  Doctor,  laugh- 
ing ;  "but  who  would  have  expected  to  hear  it  from  your 
lips  .?  " 

"  And  why  not  ?  "  persisted  Fanny ;  "  they  did  not  think 
me  such  a  silly  girl  at  school." 

"  Therefore,  why  should  I  ?  you  mean.  My  dear,  I 
never  thought  you  wanted  sense  ;  what  you  want  is  sta- 
bility and  independence  of  character." 

"  Then  what  can  be  better  than  for  me  to  become  inde- 
pendent ?  "  asked  Fanny. 

"  My  dear,  don't  play  upon  words  ;  this  is  a  serious 
matter,  if  you  are  in  earnest  about  it." 

"  Yes,  I  really  am  ;  for  since  you  made  nft  see  that  I 
had  done  harm  to  Annie  by  taking  too  many  things  for 
granted,  I  have  wished  very  much  to  do  her  some  kind- 
ness to  make  up  for  it ;  and  here  seems  a  way.  Besides, 
you  know,  uncle,  if  you  cauld  not  afford  to  have  a  gover- 
ness, it  would  be  my  duty  to  teach  the  children  ;  and  I 
assure  you,,  uncle,  I  have  thought  a  great  deal  since  Annie 
left  us,  and  I  really  think  I  had  better  have  something 
to  do." 

"  Well,  well,"  repeated  the  Doctor,  "  here  is  another  in- 
comprehensible !    I  find  your  sentiments  very  wise,  Fanny, 


Dr.  Deanes  Governess. 


171 


and  I  will  give  them  my  best  attention.  You  are  sure  you 
did  not  pick  them  up  from  a  book  ?  " 

"  O,  no,"  said  Fanny,  gravely ;  "  I  thought  of  them  en- 
tirely myself,  uncle." 

"  I  shall  have  some  further  conversation  with  you,  then, 
in  the  evening,"  replied  the  Doctor ;  "  and  after  that  I  will 
decide." 


1 72  Studies  for  Stones. 


CHAPTER    V. 


WE  left  Fanny  stepping  out  of  the  pony-carriage, 
just  after  her  uncle's  declaration  that  he  would  de- 
cide in  the  evening  upon  the  important  matter  she  had 
brought  before  him. 

"  I  do  not  see  that  it  is  so  very  important,"  thought  Fan- 
ny ;"  I  think  it  would  cause  my  uncle  a  great  deal  more 
trouble  to  advertise  or  inquire  for  another  governess,  than 
to  take  me,  whom  he  knows,  and  who  am  willing  to  do  my 
best.  To  be  sure,  I  always  thought  it  was  rather  a  sad 
thing  for  Annie  to  be  a  governess,  but  then  there  would  be 
no  disadvantage  in  it  to  me.  I  should  not  be  among 
strangers,  I  should  be  doing  it  by  my  own  free  choice,  I 
should  suffer  no  loss  of  position,  and  then,  if  anything 
should  happen  to  make  it  necessary  that  I  should  earn  my 
living,  I  should  have  proved  that  I  was  capable  of  it.  Be- 
sides," thought  Fanny,  "here  is  an  opportunity  to  do  a 
real  kindness  ;  Annie  longs  to  come  back  again,  and  by 
this  voluntary  act  of  mine  I  shall  keep  the  situation  open 
for  her." 

In  the  evening,  when  the  children  were  gone  to  bed,  and 
the  Doctor  and  his  niece  were  left  alone,  Fanny,  who  al- 
ready in  imagination  had  made  the  sacrifice  of  her  time  and 
pleasures  for  her  friend,  had  come  triumphantly  through 
her  difficulties,  and  seen  Annie  re-established  in  her  old 
place,  was  very  impatient  for  her  uncle  to  begin  to  talk 
on  this  absorbing  theme ;  but  as  he  stood  for  some  time 
on  the  rug,  with  his  hands  behind  him,  and  his  brows  knit 
as  if  in  deep  thought,  she  did  not  like  to  speak.    At  last, 


Dr.  Deanes  Governess.  173 

seeing  his  dark  eyes  intently  fixed  upon  her,  and  reading 
in  them  the  expression  of  an  evident  doubt,  she  could  keep 
silence  no  longer,  but  exclaimed,  "  Well,  uncle,  have  you 
not  decided  yet  ?  " 

"  Yet !  "  said  Doctor  Deane,  without  removing  his  scru- 
tinizing gaze.  "  My  dear,  the  advantage  to  yourself  of  some 
fixed  occupation  I  have  decided  on ;  what  remains  to  de- 
cide is,  whether  the  proposed  arrangement  would  be  of 
equal  advantage  to  me." 

"  To  you,  uncle  ?  O,  you  mean  to  the  children,  —  I  think 
I  know  quite  as  much  as  Annie  does  ;  I  have  had  an  ex- 
cellent education." 

"  Certainly,  I  have  given  you  the  best  that  I  could  afford  ; 
the  question  is,  not  whether  you  know  enough,  but  whether 
you  can  impart  what  you  know ;  not  whether  you  are  aware 
how  children  ought  to  behave,  but  whether  you  can  make 
them  do  it.  I  doubt  very  much,  Fanny,  whether  you  have 
the  art  of  governing.  And  then,  again,  how  do  you  think 
you  shall  like  early  rising  ?  " 

"  O,"  interrupted  Fanny,  "  I  delight  in  the  morning  air, 
—  it  is  so  balmy  and  healthy." 

"  In  December  and  January  ?  " 

"I  —  I  forgot  the  cold  weather,  uncle  ;  but  it  is  so  ex- 
tremely warm  now  that  surely  I  need  not  think  of  that." 

"  You  had  better  think  of  all  the  disadvantages  before- 
hand, and  while  you  are  not  bound  to  undertake  the  work ; 
for  remember,  that  if  you  do  begin  it,  I  shall  feel  deeply 
disappointed  and  grieved  if  you  throw  it  up.  It  will  be  a 
very  important  step  in  your  life.  It  is  'putting  your  hand 
to  the  plough.'" 

"  I  did  not  think  you  would  look  upon  it  in  that  solemn 
light,"  said  Fanny,  humbly  ;  "  and  I  always  supposed  it  was 
my  duty  to  try  to  be  useful ;  and  I  thought  it  was  my  mis- 
sion to  teach  the  children,  as  they  seemed  to  be  left  with- 
out a  governess,  and  I  was  at  hand  with  nothing  to  do." 


174  Studies  for  Stories. 

"  My  dear,  what  you  say  is  very  sensible  and  very  true  ; 
but  I  do  not  know  whether  the  sentiments  are  your  own, 
or  whether  you  got  them  —  Hke  too  many  of  your  senti- 
ments —  from  a  story-book.  Now  the  heroine  in  a  story- 
book, whatever  arduous  task  she  may  undertake,  and  how- 
ever many  failures  she  may  suffer  from,  is  always  blessed 
in  the  end  with  success." 

Fanny  reflected  for  a  few  minutes,  as  if  turning  over  her 
favorite  heroines  in  her  mind,  and  then  she  said,  thought- 
fully, "  Very  true,  uncle  ; "  and  with  deep  blushes  she  added, 
"  but  then  she  is  never  supposed  to  undertake  her  task  in 
her  own  strength." 

There  was  something  very  pretty  in  Fanny's  guileless 
singleness  of  heart ;  it  suited  very  well  with  her  transparent 
complexion  and  fragile  elegance.  Her  uncle  was  silent  for 
a  moment,  as  if  giving  her  further  time  to  speak  if  she  had 
more  to  say  ;  but  as  she  added  nothing,  he  presently  said, 
"  Your  remark,  my  dear  child,  fully  justifies  me  in  looking 
on  this  matter  in  what  you  just  now  called  a  '  solemn  light.' 
It  implies  that  you  have,  or  that  you  will  seek,  divine  aid 
in  carrying  out  your  proposed  task  ;  that  you  have  looked 
upon  it  in  a  religious  point  of  view,  as,  indeed,  all  the  duties 
of  a  Christian  should  be  looked  upon ;  everything^  we  are 
told,  is  to  be  done  '  in  the  name  of  the  Lord  Jesus.'  Well, 
I  consent,  then,  that  you  shall  try  what  you  can  do  ;  I  hesi- 
tated at  first,  because  I  thought  the  feeling  required  to  be 
brought  strongly  before  you,  that,  'better  it  is  that  thou 
shouldest  not  vow,  man  that  thou  shouldest  vow  and  jiot 
pay.'" 

"  I  don't  wish  to  deceive  you,"  said  Fanny ;  "  my  first 
wish  was  to  keep  the  situation  open  for  Annie,  but  I  feel 
now  that  it  is  important  to  consider  it  in  a  religious  light. 
So,  uncle,  perhaps  I  had  better  not  be  too  confident,  and 
instead  of  undertaking  the  responsibility  without  a  trial, 
may  I  try  teaching  the  children  for  a  month  ? " 


Dr.  Deanes  Goveimess.  175 

"  Certainly,  you  may ;  and  I  hereby  invest  you  with  au- 
thority over  them.  You  must  make  them  ©"bey  you,"  ("  if 
I  can,"  thought  Fanny),  —  "and  I  will  support  you  in  all 
your  proper  exercises  of  school-room  discipline." 

"  O,  Johnnie  is  the  only  one  who  will  disobey." 

"  Yes,  and  as  he  has,  in  his  own  small  person,  twice  the 
activity,  and  three  times  the  acuteness,  of  the  elder  ones, 
be  specially  careful,  my  dear,  not  to  give  him  the  advan- 
tage over  you,  by  getting  out  of  temper,  and  saying  irritat- 
ing things  ;  never  lay  yourself  open  to  a  repartee,  and  do 
not  be  tempted  to  answer  one,  —  some  children  are  re- 
markably clever  at  a  smart  answer.  When  he  is  in  a 
very  great  fidget,  and  particularly  inclined  to  be  active,  let 
your  discipline  be  such  as  will  help  to  spend  his  activity. 
Send  him  down  to  the  very  bottom  of  the  hop-garden  to 
fetch  your  book  out  of  the  arbor,  and  desire  him,  with  grav- 
ity, to  be  quick  ;  or,  if  you  have  forgotten  to  leave  a  book 
there,  send  him  up  to  the  top  of  the  house  for  this  or  that 
trifle  ;  for  you  must  remember  that,  independently  of  the 
irksomeness  of  a  task  to  many  children,  it  is  of  itself  quite 
a  punishment  to  be  obliged  to  sit  Still ;  and  if  you  can  re- 
lieve them  by  suffering  them  to  exercise  their  muscles  a 
little,  they  are  better  able  afterwards  to  give  their  minds  to 
the  book." 

"  Oh,"  said  Fanny,  with  open  eyes,  "  then,  that  is  why 
you  make  Johnnie  do  so  many  errands  .?  I  often  remarked 
that  he  was  almost  always  sent  to  fetch  something  down 
stairs  just  before  prayers,  and  I  wondered  why  you  had  so 
many  of  the  Bibles  kept  at  the  top  of  the  house,  when  they 
are  wanted  every  day." 

"  Indeed,  my  dear  ;  then  now  you  know  the  reason.  I 
always  called  the  child  my  errand-boy,  and  many  a  whip- 
ping these  errands  have  saved  him  !  But  I  do  not  say 
this  to  you  because  I  wish  to  save  my  child  from  any  mer- 
ited punishment,  only  because  I  wish  him  to  be  punished 


1 76  Studies  for  Stories.        ^ 

for  his  faults,  and  not  for  that  activity  of  body  which  he 
has  not  yet  strength  of  will .  enough  to  govern.  Now,  I 
have  no  more  to  say,  except  that  I  look  forward  to  great 
good  to  yourself,  Fanny,  as  the  result  of  this  regular  work ; 
for  I  have  often  told  you  that  anything  which  made  you 
exert  yourself  would  have  a  bracing  effect,  and  the  frequent 
exercise  that  you  must  now  take  with  the  children  will  be 
a  great  deal  better  for  you  than  the  tonic  that  I  am  often 
obliged  to  give  you." 

After  this  conversation  Fanny  retired  to  rest,  and  her 
new  duties  being  fresh  in  her  mind,  she  rose  in  the  morn- 
ing quite  as  early  as  her  friend  Annie  Salter  had  ever  been 
accustomed  to  do,  and  came  down  stairs  looking  cheerful 
and  blooming.  Her  uncle  was  already  in  the  breakfast- 
room,  and  the  three  children  with  him ;  they  had  evidently 
been  informed  that  cousin  Fanny  was  going  to  be  their 
governess,  for  the  two  little  girls  cast  glances  of  inquiry  at 
her,  as  if  they  half  expected  to  see  some  change  in  her  ap- 
pearance to  correspond  with  this  accession  of  power  over 
them  and  their  destiny.  As  for  Johnnie,  he  preserved  a 
steady  gravity  as  long  as  his  papa  was  in  the  room,  but  the 
Doctor  going  out  shortly  after,  he  took  the  opportunity  to 
throw  himself  head  over  heels,  and  then  dance  round  Fan- 
ny, cracking  his  knuckles,  and  exclaiming,  "  O,  jolly  !  " 

"  It  is  very  nearly  prayer  time,"  said  Fanny,  remember- 
ing her  uncle's  advice  ;  "  go  and  fetch  the  Bibles,  Johnnie." 

The  young  urchi^i,  after  two  or  three  more  gyrations, 
shot  up  stairs  like  a  meteor,  making  almost  as  much  noise 
in  his  course,  and  was  presently  heard  descending  again, 
with  an  ecstasy  of  chuckles.  Fanny  had  intended  to  meet 
him  at  the  door,  and  gravely  to  reprove  him  for  making  so 
much  noise  ;  but,  before  she  could  carry  out  her  purpose, 
he  was  sprawling  before  her,  having  caught  his  foot  in  the 
door-Tnat  and  come  down,  a  shower  of  books  falling  with 
him. 


Dr.  Deanes  Governess.  177 

He  rose  rather  ruefully,  and  rubbed  his  elbows,  and 
Fanny,  who  in  other  circumstances  was  the  most  likely 
girl  in  the  world  to  have  kissed  and  condoled,  now  con- 
tented herself  with  desiring  him  to  pick  up  the  books, 
and  take  some  of  them  up  again,  remarking,  that  he  had 
brought  down  twice  as  many  as  were  wanted.  As  if  doubt- 
ing whether  this  steady  gravity  could  possibly  proceed 
from  cousin  Fanny,  his  sometime  playmate,  occasionally 
his  slave,  and  generally  his  confidante,  the  boy  looked  at 
her  with  an  earnest,  inquisitive  expression,  and  finding 
that  she  did  not  laugh,  he  proceeded  to  pick  up-  the  books, 
and  carry  them  slowly  up  stairs  again. 

That  day  was  to  Fanny  a  day  of  almost  unclouded  tri- 
umph. Her  duties  being  new,  she  gave  her  whole  mind 
to  them,  and  consequently  performed  them  well ;  and  the 
fear  of  failure  being  before  her  eyes,  she  never  relaxed  the 
dignified  manner  with  which  she  had  begun  the  day.  The 
little  girls,  almost  always  good  and  docile,  surpassed  them- 
selves ;  and  Johnnie  himself  forgot  to  fidget,  in  the  ab- 
sorbing wonder  caused  by  Fanny's  complete  change  of 
character.  As  it  was  imperative  to  find  some  reason  for 
it,  he  confided  to  his  eldest  sister  his  suspicion  that  the 
fairies  had  changed  her  in  the  night ;  but  that  Httle  coun- 
sellor, remarking  that,  if  this  had  been  the  case,  the  new 
Fanny  would  not  have  known  the  place  where  they  left  off 
reading  yesterday,  he  was  obliged  to  give  up  his  theory, 
and  bedtime  came  before  he  could  think  of  another. 

As  Fanny  had  been  in  the  habit  of  hearing  them  read 
occasionally,  and  setting  them  lessons,  which  they  said  to 
her  in  a  desultory  way,  the  change,  now  that  she  had  been 
formally  declared  to  be  their  governess,  was  the  more 
striking.  But  even  this  novelty  wore  off  in  the  course 
of  three  or  four  days  ;  and  just  when  the  little  girls  had 
become  accustomed  to  cousin  Fanny,  and  had  transferred 
to  her  all  the  deference  with  which  they  had  formerly 
8*  L 


178  Studies  for  Stories, 

treated  Miss  Salter,  Johnnie  had  begun  to  find  the  new 
yoke  extremely  irksome,  and  had  set  on  foot  some  vigorous 
efforts  towards  throwing  it  off.  If  it  had  not  been  that  his 
opposition  and  restlessness  kept  her  attention  alive,  Fanny 
would  by  this  time  have  begun  to  feel  the  duties  so  easily 
performed  a  httle  wearisome.  The  excitement  was  over  ; 
the  interest  of  the  experiment  was  quenched  in  its  suc- 
cess ;  but  now  there  was  something  to  rouse  her  again, 
and,  under  the  stimulus  of  opposition,  she  reached  the  first 
day  of  her  second  week  without  acknowledging,  even  to 
herself,  that  playing  the  governess  was  not  as  amusing  and 
exciting  a  game  as  she  had  anticipated  before  she  tried  it. 

But  on  that  memorable  morning,  the  first  of  the  second 
week,  Fanny  took  a  step  which  from  henceforth  raised  her 
into  the  place  in  Johnnie's  estimation  which  Miss  Salter 
had  occupied;  and  entitled  her  to  the  same  fitful  obedience, 
and  the  same  general  attempts  on  his  part  to  be  a  good 
boy  and  do  his  duty.  She  inflicted  a  punishment  which 
had  been  invented  by  Miss  Salter,  and  tried  with  the  hap- 
piest effect.     She  called  him  by  his  name. 

"  If  the  honorable  gentleman  does  not  apologize  for  his 
conduct,"  said  the  late  Speaker  of  the  House  of  Commons, 
"  I  sha,ll  be  obliged  to  address  him  by  his  name  !  "  The 
terrified  member  immediately  apologized  most  humbly.  It 
is  almost  certain  that  Miss  Salter  had  never  heard  this 
anecdote,  yet  she  had  tried  the  same  punishment  on  the 
members  of  her  small  house  with  the  most  successful 
results.  Each  of  the  children  had  a  pet  name,  and  was 
always  addressed  by  it ;  even  the  servants  said  Master 
Johnnie  and  Miss  Kitty ;  but  on  certain  solemn  occasions, 
when  there  had  been  any  open  rebellion  or  grave  fault, 
Miss  Salter  had  been  known  to  say,  "  John  Deane,  or 
Catharine  Deane,  come  with  me  ;  I  feel  obliged  to  tell 
your  papa  of  your  conduct."  Thereupon  torrents  of  tears 
and  protestations  of  amendment  would  ensue  ;  and,  after 


Dr,  Deancs  Governess.  179 

some  hesitation,  the  offending  member  would  occasionally 
be  forgiven,  and  after  a  period,  longer  or  shorter  according 
to  the  flagrance  of  the  offence,  be  called  Johnnie  or  Kitty 
again.  The  youngest  little  girl,  being  a  very  timid,  gen- 
tle child,  had  never  been  even  threatened  with  this  alarm- 
ing punishment ;  and  upon  the  two  stronger-minded  chil- 
dren it  had  been  inflicted  so  seldom  as  to  have  lost  none 
of  its  power  by  familiarity. 

Doctor  Deane  coming  home  that  day  about  one  o'clock, 
heard  a  loud  sobbing  in  the  school-room,  the  door  of  which 
he  opened,  and  found  Johnnie  by  himself,  sitting  with  his 
slate  on  his  knee,  and  continually  blotting  out  his  figures 
with  his  tears.  The  two  little  girls  had  gone  out  for  their 
walk  with  their  governess.  "What  is  the  matter,  John- 
nie ?  "  said  the  Doctor ;  "  have  you  been  a  naughty  boy  ? " 

Johnnie,  with  a  chorus  of  sobs,  gave  utterance  thus  to 
his  grievance  :  "  Cousin  Fanny  called  me  —  called  me 
John  Deane  —  and  I  hadn't  done  anything  par  —  par  — 
ti  — cular."  ^  ^ 

"  Serve  you  right ! "  exclaimed  his  father ;  "  I  am  sure 
you  would  not  have  been  called  John  Deane  if  you  had 
done  nothing  particular." 

Hereupon  finding  that  his  father  did  not  mean  to  take 
his  part,  the  young  culprit  checked  his  sobs  as  well  as  he 
could,  and  addressed  himself  to  his  task,  which  was  a  very 
easy  one  ;  he  therefore  soon  accomplished  it,  and  when 
Fanny  came  in  again,  he  was  penitent,  and  asked  her 
humbly  to  call  him  Johnnie  again. 

Fanny  felt  that  the  wild  creature  was  now  subdued,  and 
she  wrote  to  Annie  Salter  that  night,  describing  her  tri- 
umph, and  declaring  that  she  found  her  task  both  easy  and 
delightful. 

Alas  !  she  had  deprived  it  of  all  its  interest !  Johnnie 
was  now  a  good  boy,  that  is  to  say,,  he  did  not  consciously 
contend  with  her  for  the  mastery,  and  in  the  main  he  de- 


l8o  Studies  for  Stories. 

sired  to  please  and  obey  her.  She  went  on  teaching  till 
the  end  of  the  week,  experiencing  a  degree  of  weariness 
and  distaste  that  she  could  scarcely  conceal.  She  also 
dragged  herself  through  the  fourth  week  without  openly 
showing  her  deep  regret  that  she  had  been  so  urgent  to  be 
allowed  to  be  a  governess.  On  the  Sunday  following  it 
she  did  not  feel  well,  neither  did  Johnnie.  She  did  not 
rise  on  Monday  morning,  and  when  Dr.  Deane  pronounced 
her  to  be  suffering  from  a  very  mild  attack  of  scarlatina,  of 
which  the  children  were  all  showing  symptoms,  Fanny  was 
rather  glad  than  otherwise.  "  At  any  rate,"  she  thought, 
"  there  will  be  no  lessons  to  attend  to  this  week  "  ;  and  as 
both  she  and  her  pupils  had  taken  the  complaint  in  its 
very  best  form,  and,  though  not  allowed  to  rise,  were  feel- 
ing no  pain,  and  little  weakness,  she  did  not  alter  her 
mind  while  the  feverish  symptoms  lasted,  but  said  to  her- 
self several  times,  '■'■  Anything  is  better  than  that  school- 
room ! " 


Dr.  Deanes  Governess.  i8l 


CHAPTER    VI. 

CONCLUSION. 

WHILE  Dr.  Deane's  governess  was  ill  in  bed,  just 
a  little  ill,  and  able  to  appreciate  the  comforts  of 
being  petted,  and  watched,  and  waited  on ;  and  while  her 
young  pupils,  with  blankets  folded  on  their  chairs,  were 
sitting  up  and  eating  chicken-broth  and  other  agreeable 
dainties,  Ann  Salter  stopped  at  home,  and  tried  hard  to  be 
happy  there.  She  felt  that  it  was  indeed  unnatural  to  long 
to  be  away  from  her  kindred,  and  that  it  was  base  to  be 
ashamed  of  them  and  their  want  of  refinement,  when  her 
own  superior  education,  the  nice  dresses  she  had  worn 
during  her  girlhood,  as  well  as  many  a  cake  and  cream 
cheese  that  had  been  sent  her,  to  make  her  popular  at 
school,  were  the  result  of  their  self-denial.  Many  a  time  had 
her  grandmother  gone  without  a  new  gown,  and  many  a 
time  had  her  mother  walked  home  from  market,  instead  of 
taking  the  coach,  in  order  that  she  might  have  and  learn 
all  that  was  suitable  to  make  her  independent,  and  might 
not  be  laughed  at  or  slighted  by  the  other  pupils,  because 
her  clothes  were  more  homely  and  old-fashioned  than 
theirs. 

Ann  Salter  felt  all  this  ;  she  blessed  the  memory  of  her 
good  old  grandmother ;  and  was  very  thankful  to  her 
mother,  while,  being  a  girl  of  real  good  sense,  in  spite  of 
some  little  follies  that  she  had  given  way  to  while  in  her 
situation  as  governess,  she  did  not  fail  continually  to  keep 
before  her  mind,  that  as  by  the  self-denial  of  others  she 
had  been' made  more  refined  and  better  informed  than  they 


1 82  Studies  for  Stories. 

were,  it  would  be  great  ingratitude  in  her  to  shrink  from 
their  want  of  refinement  and  despise  their  ignorance. 

So  she  endeavored  not  to  blush  when  she  saw  her  moth- 
er making  out  little  bills  for  poultry,  butter,  and  cream, 
which  had  been  sent  for  by  the  neighboring  gentry ;  and 
spelling  the  articles  and  distributing  the  capital  letters  after 
the  manner  of  the  uneducated.  Sometimes  she  would  say, 
"  Why  not  let  me  make  out  the  bills,  mother  ?  you  know  I 
learnt  accounts  at  school,  and  I  could  cast  up  the  items  in 
a  very  little  time." 

"  Bless  me,  child,"  the  answer  would  be,  "  I  have  made 
out  the  bills  for  forty  years,  and  it 's  very  seldom  that 
there  's  a  mistake  in  them." 

"  Mother,"  the  daughter  once  ventured  to  remark,  "  you 
have  spelt  '  guinea-fowl '  without  the  '  u ' ;  shall  I  put  it  in  ?  " 

"  Why,  what  does  it  matter,  child  ?  Ay,  I  see  I  have  ; 
I  was  always  reckoned  a  very  good  speller,  but  I  forget 
sometimes,  though,  I  know." 

"And  let  me  mark  out  this  second  't'  in  'apricot,' 
mother ;  I  wish  you  would  let  me  write  the  bills,  mother, 
I  have  nothing  particular  to  do  just  now." 

"  No,  child,  I  have  so  much  stirring  work  to  do,  that  I 
like  the  quiet  of  sitting  down  to  my  writing ;  it  seems  to 
rest  my  bones." 

This  argument  was  unanswerable  ;  and  after  hearing  it, 
Ann  Salter  went  up  to  sit  with  her  father,  who,  being  a 
little  better,  had  a  talking  fit  upon  him,  and  told  her  a 
vast  number  of  somewhat  queer  stories,  such  as  his  own 
"  cronies "  would  have  received  with  bursts  of  approving 
laughter.  There  was  nothing  decidedly  coarse  in  senti- 
ment about  them,  but  they  were  related  with  such  a  twang, 
and  richness  of  provincial  dialect,  and  embellished  with  so 
many  broad  jokes,  that  his  daughter  had  difficulty  in  pre- 
serving her  serenity  of  countenance,  and  a  proper  air  of 
interest  under  the  infliction  of  her  father's  wit.    • 


Dr.  Deanes  Governess.  183 

But  she  was  sincerely  trying  to  be  useful  and  contented, 
therefore  it  was  not  wonderful  that,  without  losing  her  own 
refinement  of  mind,  she  gradually  became  habituated  to 
•the  manners  and  customs  of  home,  and  was  able  to  hear 
her  mother's  bad  grammar  with  tranquillity,  and  listen  to 
her  father's  wit,  oft-repeated,  and  always  with  loud  laugh- 
ter on  his  own  part,  as  to  a  rather  agreeable  thing  which 
showed  that  he  was  merry,  and  consequently  improving  in 
health. 

Also,  in  the  course  of  a  few  weeks,  Mr.  Dobson's  visits, 
which  at  first  had  been  to  her  a  matter  of  supreme  indif- 
ference, began  to  interest  her  in  a  certain  degree,  inso- 
much, that  when  her  father  teased  and  laughed  at  her, 
she  could  not  help  blushing  and  feehng  very  uncomfort- 
able. 

She  had  long  ago  made  up  her  mind  that  she  never 
would  marry  him,  Fanny  having  mainly  contributed  to  this 
decision,  by  remarking  concerning  him,  that  "  he  was  not 
a  gentleman,"  and  having  followed  up  the  disparaging 
assertion  by  adding  that  he  was  not  particularly  good-look- 
ing, and  had  a  sheepish  air.  She  remembered  this  now, 
and  sometimes  felt  angry  with  Fanny  for  having  said  it, 
and  sometimes  felt  angry  with  herself  for  beginning  to  think 
other*vise.  But  one  day —  one  particularly  fine  day,  a  day 
that  she  often  thought  of  afterwards  —  when  her  father, 
who  could  now  sit  up  by  the  window,  was  comforting  his 
heart  by  watching  the  loaded  wains  coming  in  from  his 
harvest-fields,  she  saw  him  laughing  quietly  to  himself  as 
he  looked  out ;  and  when  she  said,  "  What  amuses  you, 
father  ?  "  he  repHed,  to  her  confusion,  "  Here's  thy  young 
man  coming  again." 

"  My  young  man,  father  ?  pray  don't  call  him  so,"  she 
exclaimed  involuntarily. 

"Well,  well,"  answered  the  accommodating  parent, 
"maybe  he  comes  to  see  thy  mother!" 


1 84  Studies  for  Stories. 

Ann  Salter  now  recollected  herself,  and  said  with  gravi- 
ty, "  To  whom  are  you  alluding,  father  ?  " 

She  said  this  without  intending  to  amuse  her  father,  far 
from  it ;  and  when  he  laughed  till  the  tears  ran  down  his 
face,  she  felt,  at  first,  rather  pettish  ;  but  laughter  is  infec- 
tious, and  when  the  farmer,  wiping  his  eyes,  exclaimed,  "  O 
child,  thy  little  airs  are  like  to  be  the  death  of  me,"  she 
could  not  help  laughing  too.  "  To  whom  be  I  alluding  ? 
that's  school  language,  I  reckon,"  he  continued,  "  but  don't 
toss  up  thy  little  chin  too  high,  for  I'm  afraid  he  is  too 
much  of  a  gentleman  for  the  like  of  thee." 

"  Too  much  of  a  gentleman  ! "  the  word  struck  Ann  Sal- 
ter forcibly ;  what,  did  Fanny  object  to  him  as  not  a  gen- 
tleman, and  her  father  as  too  much  a  gentleman  ? 

"  If  you  please,  Miss,  Mr.  Dobson  has  stepped  in  to  tea, 
and  it  is  just  upon  five  o'clock,"  said  Emily,  appearing 
some  time  after,  "  and  your  mother  says  you  are  to  come 
down  and  make  tea." 

Mr.  Dobson  made  himself  very  agreeable  that  evening ; 
he  was  intelligent  and  well-educated,  and  though  very 
gauche  and  shy,  he  could  talk  extremely  well,  when  encour- 
aged by  an  appearance  of  interest  in  the  listener  whom  he 
most  wished  to  please.  Ann  Salter  had  never  conde- 
scended to  make  the  least  reply  to  the  speech  he  ha*  stam- 
mered through,  while  she  was  in  the  kitchen  mixing  the 
pudding,  and  he  had  found  no  opportunity  for  repeating  it. 
The  dreaded  letter  from  Austraha  had  arrived,  and  Mrs. 
Salter  having  said  that  nothing  in  the  world,  not  even  a 
barn  full  of  gold,  should  induce  her  to  go  over  among  those 
jumping  kangaroos,  he  felt  as  if  his  hopes  had  received  a 
great  blow,  for  he  had  relied  on  her  hesitating,  and  being 
only  induced  to  stay  if  he  could  persuade  her  daughter  to 
like  him  and  settle  in  England. 

Now,  whatever  happened,  she  would  not  go ;  therefore 
Mr.  Dobson  felt  low-  in  his  mind,  as  if  his  chief  hold  and 
hope  had  been  taken  from  him. 


Dr.  Deanes  Governess.  185 

"  Not  if  I  was  to  have  a  barn  full  of  gold,"  repeated  the 
worthy  matron,  as  they  discussed  the  matter  that  evening. 

"  A  barn  full,  mother  !  "  said  Ann  Salter,  "  you  don't  know 
what  you  are  talking  of;  do  you  know  I  was  reading  the 
other  day  that  all  the  gold  that  had  been  brought  from  the 
gold  diggings  since  they  were  first  worked,  would  go  into 
an  omnibus  —  a  very  small  omnibus." 

"  Sure-ly,"  said  Mrs.  Salter,  amazed.  "  Yes,"  proceeded 
the  daughter,  "  and  in  the  same  book  I  read,  that  all  the 
gold  now  coined  and  in  circulation  in  the  world  would  go 
into  a  room  twenty-five  feet  square." 

"Well !  "  said  Mrs.  Salter,  "  I  should  judge  that  the  man 
who  wrote  that  book  did  not  know  much  about  gold ;  for  I 
am  sure,  I  must  have  had  as  much  money  through  my 
hands  as  would  fill  our  great  oven." 

"  Not  gold  money,  mother,  surely  ?  " 

"  If  it  was  not  gold,  it  was  gold's  worth,"  replied  Mrs. 
Salter,  warmly ;  "  what  does  it  matter  whether  it  was  gold 
or  silver,  so  long  as  they  give  you  the  same  quantity  of 
gold  for  it,  and  so  long  as,  whether  you  have  it  in  gold,  or 
notes,  or  silver,  it  is  of  the  same  value  ?  —  provided  the 
bank  you  had  the  notes  from  does  not  break,"  she  added, 
after  a  moment's  reflection. 

"  But,  mother,"  Ann  Salter  began,  "  that  was  not  exactly 
what  I  meant." 

"I  don't  think  you  exactly  seem  to  know  what  you 
mean,"  interrupted  her  mother  with  dignity,  "  if  you  want 
to  persuade  me  that  twenty  shilhngs  and  one  sovereign  are 
not  the  same  thing.?  what  Aq> yoti  say,  Mr.  Dobson  ?" 

Mr.  Dobson  hesitated  and  blushed  ;  he  did  not  want  to 
offend  the  good  woman,  but  her  head  was  in  a  fog  of  mis- 
apprehension and  a  whirl  of  confusion ;  she  saw  at  once 
that  both  he  and  her  daughter  thought  her  wrong,  and  in  a 
somewhat  indignant  state  of  miud  she  said  that  she  was 
sure  her  poor  dear  husband  must  be  wanting  her,  and  she 


1 86  Studies  for  Stories. 

should  go  and  sit  with  him.  Mr.  Dobson  must  excuse  her, 
and  Ann  might  call  her  down  at  supper-time. 

So  at  supper-time  Ann  did  call  her  down,  but  did  not 
return  with  her  to  the  parlor,  preferring  to  remain  with  her 
father  and  read  a  chapter  or  two  to  him  as  he  lay  some- 
what restlessly  in  his  bed.  Mrs.  Salter  had  quite  recov- 
ered her  good  humor  when  she  descended,  and  she  found 
Mr.  Dobson  in  very  good  humor  also,  inclined  to  eat  a 
plentiful  supper,  which  was  always  agreeable  to  her,  as  she 
was  naturally  of  a  hospitable  turn  ;  and  she  found  him  also 
inclined  to  sit  and  hsten,  or  at  least  silently  to  gaze  at  her, 
while  she  told  some  of  her  longest  stories  respecting  her 
husband's  illness,  and  her  own  poultry-yard. 

At  last  he  rose ;  the  moon  was  shining  brilliantly  in  at 
the  open  door  of  the  passage,  and  the  white  jessamine  that 
was  nailed  against  the  door  threw  in  a  sweet  perfume. 
Young  William  Dobson  looked  up  the  narrow  staircase, 
perhaps  wondering  whether  Ann  would  come  down,  per- 
haps listening  to  the  distant  sound  of  a  voice  as  it  came 
indistinctly  from  an  upper  chamber.  He  lingered  so  long 
at  the  door,  that  Mrs.  Salter  began  to  tell  another  story, 
and  he  leaned  his  back  against  the  doorpost  and  listened, 
as  it  seemed  contentedly ;  all  the  time  looking  forth  into 
the  quiet  farm-yard,  where  a  group  of  cows  lay  still,  chew- 
ing the  cud,  and  an  old  gray  horse  stood  fast  asleep  by  the 
pond,  and  a  flock  of  ducks,  with  their  heads  under  their 
wings,  all  huddled  together,  looked  soft  and  white  as 
patches  of  show  in  the  moonshine. 

"  Well,  I  must  be  going,"  he  said  at  last. 

"  Must  you,  Mr.  WilHam  ?  "  replied  his  hostess  ;  "  well, 
good-night ;  give  my  respects  to  your  mother." 

And  a  very  pleasant  young  man  he  is,  thought  the  ma- 
tron ;  attentive  to  his  elders,  and  sensible  too ;  he  knows 
when  he  hears  a  good  story,  and  likes^to  listen  to  the  end 
of  it,  —  not  interrupt,  as  some  folks  do. 


Dr.  Deaiies  Governess.  187 

The  sound  of  a  readers  voice  had  given  place  to  the 
sound  of  a  sleeper's  snoring,  when  Mrs.  Salter  crept  softly 
up  stairs,  and  Ann  Salter  stole  lightly  away  to  her  own  ht- 
tle  room,  and  having  shut  the  door,  walked  straight  up  to 
a  certain  box,  and  after  lifting  out  certain  neat  ribbons  and 
collars,  drew  from  its  depth  her  once  cherished  and  now 
neglected  journal.  She  set  down  her  candle  on  the  little 
dressing-tablE,  put  her  feet  on  a  small  wooden  stool,  and 
sat  with  this  journal  on  her  knee  for  some  minutes  before 
she  opened  it. 

"  Too  much  of  a  gentleman  ! "  she  mentally  ejaculated  ; 
"  what  could  make  my  father  say  that  ?  How  strange  it  is 
that  different  people  should  see  things  in  such  different 
lights  !  Well,  perhaps  father  was  right  in  one  respect : 
William  Dobson's  father  and  grandfather  were  as  well  off 
and  as  respectable  in  their  way  as  himself;  but  my  grand- 
father was  a  laboring  man  by  my  mother's  side,  and  my 
other  grandfather  could  scarcely  manage  to  read  a  chapter 
in  the  Bible,  he  had  so  little  schooling.  Father  could  not 
have  meant  that  I  was  not  equal  to  him  in  education,  for 
tliough  he  was  sent  to  the  grammar-school  for  years,  and 
got  on  so  well  that  the  master  wanted  to  persuade  his  father 
to  send  him  to  college,  I  am  quite  as  well  instructed  as  he, 
though  I  may  not  be  so  clever."  A  long  pause.  "  Fanny 
certainly  did  try  to  set  me  against  him,  and  I  thought  I 
did  not  care  for  him,  —  certainly  at  one  time  I  should  not 
have  cared  if  I  had  never  seen  him  again,  —  but  I  really,  — 
I  really  do  not  see  that  it  is  any  business  of  Fanny's  !  Let 
me  see  what  it  was  that  she  said,  —  Ah  !  '  Tuesday^  the 
\st.  —  Went  out  to  walk  with  the  children.  What  a  sweet 
girl  Fanny  is  !  so  refined,  such  a  horror  of  everything 
second-rate  J  I  think,  however,  she  carries  it  a  little  too 
far  ;  she  thinks  it  quite  a  misfortune  to  have  a  low  origin.' 
Nothing  about  it  there.  '  Wednesday^  the  id.  —  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Greaves,  Mrs.  Sumners,  and   Captain  Combermere 


1 88  Studies  for  Stories. 

dined  here  to-day,  as  well  as  the  visitors  staying  in  the 
house,  —  no  room  for  me  at  the  table,  —  had  to  dine  with 
the  children.  Fanny  was  distressed,  and  said,  "  I  dare  say, 
dear,  that  being  accustomed  to  good  society,  you  feel 
keenly  the  dulness  of  your  present  Mfe  " ;  she  was  so  sym- 
pathizing that  I  could  not  help  shedding  a  few  tears,  —  I 
did  not  say  anything.'  (Bah  !  you  little  goose,  exclaimed  . 
the  young  reader,  apostrophizing  her  formed  self,  accus- 
tomed to  good  society,  indeed  !  You  !  when  the  only  din- 
ner company  you  had  ever  known  was  a  couple  or  so  of 
your  father's  grazier  friends,  who  adjourned  to  the  kitchen  to 
smoke  and  drink  beer,  when  they  had  devoured  your  moth- 
er's custards  and  roast  pig.)  '  Thursday^  the  3^.'  (Ah,  here 
it  is.)  — '  Took  a  walk  with  the  children,  and  Fanny  accom- 
panied us  to  my  great  joy ;  we  went  down  Balcombe  Lane 
to  see  how  the  hops  were  growing,  and  just  as  we  came 
near  young  WiUiam  Dobson's  garden,  he  passed  on  horse- 
back, and  made  a  low  bow  to  me.  He  looked  very  shy,  I 
thought,  and  colored  a  good  deal.  As  soon  as  he  had 
passed  out  of  hearing,  Fanny  exclaimed,  "  Who  could  that 
man  be,  Annie  1  Why,  he  actually  bowed  to  you  ;  how 
did  you  get  acquainted  with  him  ?  He  is  not  a  gentleman, 
surely."  I  said  he  was  a  very  respectable  farmer  and  mil- 
ler ;  that  I  had  known  him  a  long  time,  and  that  we  were 
then  walking  among  his  fields.  "  But  surely,"  she  said,  "  he 
ought  not  to  have  taken  the  liberty  of  bowing,  —  he  cannot 
be  a  proper  person  for  us  to  be  acquainted  with,"  —  and  I 
looked  after  him,  and  noticed  that  he  had  on  top-boots  and 
corduroys,  and  that  he  did  not  look  quite  like  a  gentleman, 
though  he  rode  very  well.  "  I  am  sure  your  friends  would 
not  approve  of  such  an  acquaintance,"  said  Fanny.  "  I  am 
sure  they  would  not  mind,"  I  answered ;  and  she  looked 
quite  surprised  ;  so  it  is  evident  that  her  notions  of  what  is 
proper  —  [here  a  few  words  were  scratched  out]  —  and  my 
father's  differ  widely.     Just  then  William  Dobson  turned 


Dr.  Deanes  Governess.  189 

his  horse,  and  came  up  to  us  again,  and  spoke  to  me.  I 
was  so  vexed  on  account  of  Fanny's  seeing  it,  that  I  hardly 
knew  what  he  said,  or  what  I  answered  ;  but  I  believe  he 
asked  if  we  would  like  to  go  through  the  gate  of  his  hop- 
garden down  to  Balcombe  Bridge.  I  think  he  said  he  had 
the  key  of  the  lower  gate  in  his  pocket,  but  I  know  I  an- 
swered shortly  and  coldly,  and  he  bowed  again  and  went 
off,  soon  putting  his  horse  into  a  gallop.  I  did  not  mean 
to  hurt  his  feelings,  but  really,  he  had  no  right  to  speak  to 
me,  particularly  when  I  had  a  young  lady  with  me,  nor  had 
he  any  occasion  to  assume  that  look  of  disappointment  and 
misery  that  he  put  on.  Fanny  says  she  thinks  he  is  a  very 
sheepish-looking  young  man,  and  extremely  awkward.' " 

There  this  wise  and  truly  feminine  record  ceased  for  that 
day.  Ann  Salter  read  it  carefully,  and  then,  with  great 
deliberation,  tore  it  out  and  held  it  to  the  flame  of  the  can- 
dle, which  speedily  consumed  it.  She  afterwards  searched 
through  the  remainder  of  her  journal,  and  tore  out  and 
burnt  several  pages  of  similar  import ;  then,  observing  that 
there  was  a  great  smell  of  burning  in  the  room,  she  cau- 
tiously opened  the  window,  and  straightway  a  gust  of  wind 
blew  the  tinder  of  her  manuscript  suddenly  all  about  her 
floor  and  her  snowy  counterpane.  It  occupied  nearly  half 
an  hour  to  collect  the  bits  and  dispose  of  them  safely  ;  by 
this  time  her  candle  was  nearly  out,  and  she  was  obliged 
to  undress  by  the  Hght  of  the  moon ;  but  was  scarcely  in 
bed  when  a  shuffling  noise  in  the  passage  arrested  her 
attention  :  her  mother  was  evidently  making  a  progress 
through  the  house,  trying  to  find  out  where  the  smell  of 
burning  came  from.  She  opened  the  door,  saying,  "  Annie, 
dear,  did  you  see  that  the  oven  fire  was  well  out  afore  you 
came  to  bed  ?"  Annie,  blushing,  confessed  that  the  oven 
was  innocent  of  this  smell,  and  described  how  it  originated. 
Her  mother  withdrew.  She  felt  ashamed  of  herself;  she 
knew  what  she  had  burnt  were  proofs  of  her  folly,  and  she 


1 90  Studies  for  Stories, 

felt  that  burning  them  at  that  time  of  night  were  proofs  of 
her  inconsiderateness.  But  she  was  young,  she  was  tired, 
and  she  had  been  up  since  sunrise  ;  so  she  shortly  fell 
asleep,  and  forgot  all  about  her  journal,  and  even  forgot 
the  subject  of  it. 

And  what,  rneanwhile,  became  of  Fanny  ?  Why,  Fanny 
got  better,  and  somewhat  languidly  proposed  to  resume  her 
duties,  but  Dr.  Deane  said  neither  she  nor  the  children 
were  well  enough  at  present ;  and  Fanny  was  secretly  glad. 
They  were  to  go  to  the  seaside  for  a  month.  On  hearing 
this  Fanny's  joy  was  extreme,  for  school  was  not  to  be 
thought  of  till  their  return.  She  was  getting  on  very  well, 
circumstances  having  assisted  her ;  by  the  time  they  re- 
turned Ann  Salter  would  have  been  at  home  ten  weeks. 
Fanny  had  never  proposed  to  keep  the  situation  open  for 
her  more  than  six  months.  Six  months  are  twenty-five 
weeks,  —  fifteen  only  would  remain,  —  and  of  those,  three 
would  be  Christmas  holidays.  Twelve  weeks  she  could 
surely  drag  through  ;  indeed,  she  should  consider  it  a  duty 
to  do  so,  especially  as  her  uncle  had  spoken  of  the  matter 
in  a  religious  light.  O  yes,  both  duty  and  friendship  de- 
manded of  her  that  the  twelve  weeks  should  be  spent  in 
the  conscientious  discharge  of  her  school  duties. 

The  happy  party  set  off  for  the  seaside.  Fanny  would 
have  liked  to  call  on  Ann  Salter  beforehand,  but  the  Doc- 
tor would  not  hear  of  it,  as  the  complaint  she  had  suffered 
from  was  infectious.  He  established  his  niece  and  the 
children  in  a  pretty  cottage  by  the  sea,  with  an  elderly 
servant,  and  promised  to  come  over  and  see  them  when- 
ever time  permitted.  At  first,  children  and  governess  were 
extremely  happy  ;  their  appetites  were  keener  than  usual, 
owing  as  much  to  recent  illness  as  to  sea  air,  and  their 
meals  alone  were  a  source  of  pleasure.  Then  there  was 
the  bathing,  and  the  gathering  of  shells,  and  the  climbing 
of  cliffs,  and  the  going  out  in  boats  ;  so  that  the  days  did 


Dr.  Deanes  Governess.  191 

not  seem  half  long  enough  for  all  their  enjoyments  ;  but  a 
fortnight  passed  over,  and  the  weather  became  extremely- 
cold  and  very  wet,  the  evenings  drew  in  rapidly,  the  leaves 
fell,  sometimes  it  was  too  cold  for  them  to  bathe,  and  al- 
ways it  was  too  windy  for  them  to  row.  They  had  already 
found  more  shells  than  they  could  possibly  carry  home, 
and  they  could  not  go  on  the  cHffs,  which  were  slippery 
and  dangerous.  They  began  to  wish  they  had  something 
to  do.  Fanny  bought  them  some  calico  at  the  one  little 
shop  which  the  place  afforded,  and  cut  out  some  doll's 
clothes  for  them  to  make ;  she  also  bought  some  twine, 
that  Johnnie  might  knit  a  large  fishing-net,  he  having  set 
his  heart  on  catching  a  whale,  in  case  one  should  visit  the 
coast.  Such  a  thing  having  once  happened,  it  might  hap- 
pen again,  and  it  was  as  well  to  be  prepared  ! 

But  this  work  only  kept  the  children  good  and  contented 
for  one  long  rainy  day,  and  when  they  rose  the  next  morn- 
ing, and  looking  out,  saw  a  rough  sea,  yellow  with  the  sand 
that  it  was  tearing  up  from  the  shore,  all  foaming  and  rag- 
ing ;  and  when  they  saw  a  black  sky,  only  diversified  by 
great  driving  clouds,  from  which  the  cold  sloppy  rain  was 
falling,  and  splashing  in  torrents  against  windows  and 
walls,  they  were  very  peevish,  and  said  they  would  rather 
be  at  home  learning  their  lessons  in  the  school-room  than 
stop  in-doors  there  all  day,  and  do  nothing.  Fanny  made 
breakfast  last  as  long  as  she  could,  and  then  she  occupied 
them  some  time  by  choosing  for  the  chapters  which  they 
daily  read  the  longest  she  could  find  ;  then  she  had  some 
letters  written  home  to  their  papa,  and  was  very  par- 
ticular about  the  writing  and  the  spelling,  but  even  these 
letters,  —  her  last  resource,  —  were  finished  by  eleven 
o'clock,  and  now  what  was  to  be  done  for  the  rest  of  the 
day? 

She  did  not  know,  and  the  children  did  not  know. 
There  were  no  story-books,  no  toys,  no  lessons,  no  paint- 


192  Studies  for  Stories. 

boxes ;  nothing  wanted  putting  to  rights  ;  there  was  noth- 
ing to  do,  nothing  to  make,  and  nothing  even  to  spoil. 

Fanny  escaped  into  her  bedroom  to  consider  what  she 
should  do  with  the  children  for  the  rest  of  the  day,  and 
while  there,  she  heard  unmistakable  sounds,  which  testified 
that  a  game  at  romps  was  going  on  below ;  the  children 
were  jumping  from  the  chairs,  and  rushing  about  the  room, 
and  shouting  and  laughing  with  the  vehemence  which 
often  follows  enforced  quietude.  Fanny  listened,  and  re- 
solved to  keep  out  of  the  way  and  ignore  the  noise  ;  but 
she  had  nothing  to  do  herself  but  to  watch  the  racing  drops 
chase  one  another  over  the  panes,  and  the  one  fishing-boat 
at  anchor  rocking  and  tossing  upon  the  restless  foaming 
waves. 

"  How  dull  it  is  ! "  thought  Fanny.  "  I  declare  I  shall  be 
glad  to  exchange  this  for  the  school-room.  What  a  noise 
the  children  make,  —  how  the  floor  shakes  ! "  Then  Fan- 
ny read  a  few  hymns,  then  she  looked  out  again,  and  so 
she  spent  an  hour.  At  last,  —  O  welcome  sound  !  —  she 
heard  tht  clatter  of  knives  and  spoons,  and  a  childish  hur- 
rah came  up  from  below.  Fanny  ventured  to  descend,  and 
found  the  children  quiet,  room  somewhat  dusty,  confiden- 
tial servant  making  them  put  it  neat,  and  beginning  to  lay 
the  cloth.  Confidential  servant,  being  a  wise  woman,  was 
making  a  fuss  about  the  untidiness  of  the  room,  and  de- 
claring that  she  could  not  bring  in  the  dinner  till  the  chairs 
had  been  dusted.  She  produced  some  of  those  domestic 
inventions  called  "  dusters,"  and  the  children  diligently  pol- 
ished, and  rubbed,  and  set  in  order,  till  the '  dinner  was 
ready,  when  it  was  brought  in  with  great  parade,  and  for  the 
next  three  quarters  of  an  hour  great  contentment  reigned 
in  the  breasts  of  governess  and  pupils.  Confidential  ser- 
vant then  proposed,  that  as  it  was  very  damp  and  chilly, 
and  not  likely  to  be  any  finer,  there  should  be  a  fire  "  laid^ 
and  lighted.     Fanny  consented  with  pleasure,  and  the  ser- 


Dr.  Deanes  Governess.  193 

vant,  who  pitied  her  in  her  heart,  made  the  operations  of 
taking  down  the  colored  shavings,  clearing  away  several 
spiders'  webs,  and  laying  down  the  chips  and  coals  for  the 
fire,  last  as  long  as  she  could.  The  children,  whose  little 
hands  were  cold  and  red,  were  delighted  to  observe  the  op- 
eration, and  sat  sometime,  when  it  was  lighted,  warming 
themselves,  and  contented  to  do  nothing  while  they 
basked  in  the  heat.  Fanny's  head  ached  after  the  noise  of 
the  morning,  and  she  was  very  thankful  for  this  respite 
from  tumult ;  but  it  did  not  last  long.  Shortly  the  loud 
lamentations  began  again,  "  Nothing  to  do ;  nothing  to 
play  with;  rains  here  all  day,  —  scarcely  ever  rains  at 
home."  "  Wish  we  were  at  home  ;  don't  care  about  holi- 
days." "  Always  rains  on  holidays."  "  O,  you  pushed  me  ! " 
"  I  did  n't."  "  You  did.  Cousin  Fanny,  Johnnie  pushed 
me."  "  O  you  little  tell-tale  thing  !  "  —  another  push,  then 
a  burst  of  angry  tears.  "  Johnnie,  how  dare  you  push  your 
sister  ?  Come  here,  sir."  Johnnie  inveighed  against  his  sis- 
ter as  a  little  coward  ;  he  hardly  touched  her.  "  You  did  ; 
you  pushed  me  very  hard."  "  I  did  n't,"  followed  by  a  cho- 
rus of  sobs  and  indignant  tears.  Then  the  most  junior  of 
the  Deanes  —  always  timid  and  inclined  to  tears  —  melted 
Hkewise,  and  wished  she  had  her  big  doll  to  play  with  ;  her 
big  doll  whose  eyes  Johnnie  poked  in  on  his  birthday. 

Fanny  was  almost  always  in  despair,  and  very  much  in- 
clined to  cry  too  ;  when  lo  !  her  good  genius,  alias  the  con- 
fidential servant,  marched  in.  "  If  you  please.  Miss,  would 
you  like  buttered  toast  for  tea  to-night }  " 

"  Yes,  Martin  ;  anything  you  please,"  said  Fanny,  utter- 
ly dispirited. 

"  Then,  may  I  have  the  children  in  the  kitchen  to  help 
to  toast  it,  ma'am?"  said  Martin,  coolly;  "the  kitchen 
here  is  as  clean  and  quiet  as  the  parlor,  and  they  eat  so 
much  toast,  that  I  had  need  of  four  hands  instead  of  two 
if  I  am  to  toast  it  all." 

9  M 


194  Studies  for  Stories. 

"  They  may  go  and  help  you  then,  Martin,"  replied  Fan- 
ny, smiling ;  and  straightway  the  lamentations  ceased,  and 
the  combatants,  now  good  friends  again,  proceeded  to  the 
kitchen,  where  they  amused  themselves  for  more  than  an 
hour  in  toasting  bread,  and  seeing  the  little  -culinary  ope- 
rations that  Martin  was  conducting  at  the  same  time. 

Fanny  was  most  thankful  for  this  quiet  hour,  and  as  les- 
sons were  the  only  things  she  had  to  look  to  with  hope  as 
a  means  of  passing  the  rainy  days,  she  wrote  home  to  her 
uncle,  begging  that  a  box  of  books  might  be  sent,  and 
some  slates  and  maps. 

The  next  day  was  quite  as  wet  and  cheerless  ;  the  third 
day  a  letter  arrived.  It  informed  Fanny  that  the  books 
were  packed,  but  as  the  Doctor  was  coming  over  himself 
on  Saturday,  it  was  thought  best  that  he  should  bring  them 
with  him.  O,  weary  week !  rain,  and  damp,  and  idleness 
shared  its  mornings,  peevishness  clouded  its  evenings. 
Even  the  dinner  and  the  tea  did  not  afford  the  same  pleas- 
ure as  formerly,  —  want  of  exercise  taking  away  the  keen- 
ness of  appetite. 

Saturday  came,  however,  at  last,  and  was  a  very  fine 
day  ;  so  lovely  that  all  grief  and  discontent  were  forgotten, 
and  governess  and  pupils  sallied  forth,  in  excellent  temper 
and  light  spirits,  for  a  long  ramble.  The  Doctor  was  not 
expected  till  the  evening ;  therefore,  as  soon  as  the  morn- 
ing dinner  was  despatched,  they  set  out  on  another  expe- 
dition, and  did  not  arrive  at  the  cottage  till  so  late  that  the 
>  Doctor  was  there  before  them.  In  arranging  the  speci- 
mens of  shell  and  weed  that  they  had  brought  home,  and 
in  hearing  the  Uttle  pieces  of  news  from  home,  the  even- 
ing passed  very  happily  away,  and  it  was  not  until  all,  the 
children  were  in  bed,  that  the  painful  fact  was  casually 
mentioned  by  the  Doctor,  that  he  had  forgotten  the  box 
of  books.  Fanny  was  terribly  disappointed ;  but,  as  the 
weather  was  now  fine  again,  she  could  only  hope  that  it 


Dr.  Deanes  Governess.  195 

would  remain  so ;  and,  in  that  case,  she  should  not  want 
the  books.  But  I  do  not  intend  to  suspend  my  narrative 
for  the  sake  of  becoming  a  weather  chronicler ;  suffice  it 
to  tell,  that  until  the  happy  and  much-desired  day  when 
Fanny  found  herself  once  more  on  the  road  home,  the 
weather  was  sometimes  fine  and  sometimes  not  fine,  gen- 
erally the  latter  ;  and  the  children  and  their  governess 
reached  it  longing  more  for  the  school-room  than  ever  they 
had  longed  for  a  hohday.  "  O  the  delight  of  regularity 
and  order  !  "  thought  Fanny,  "  and  O  what  a  luxury  it  is  to 
l\ave  something  to  do  !  " 

Fanny  remained  nearly  in  the  same  mind  until  the 
Christmas  hoHdays  ;  perhaps  a  continuance  of  somewhat 
dreary  weather  had  something  to  do  with  it ;  perhaps  the 
absence  of  visitors,  and  of  exciting  incidents,  made  it  more 
easy  for  her  to  work  cheerfully.  Be  that  as  it  may,  she 
felt  that  her  duties  were  not  disagreeable  now,  principle 
having  done  much  for  her,  and  habit  more. 

The  first  week  of  her  Christmas  hohdays  she  greatly 
enjoyed.  The  second  week,  strange  to  say,  she  began  to 
feel  the  old  dismal  weariness  that  she  had  suffered  at  the 
seaside.  She  had  lost  her  former  taste  for  silly  story- 
books, and  she  was  strong  enough  now  not  to  find  it  any 
pleasure  to  lie  half-dreaming  on  the  sofa,  with  nothing  in 
her  hand  but  a  little  bit  of  crochet-edging.  The  third 
week  she  began  to  acknowledge  to  herself  that  she  longed 
for  the  holidays  to  be  over,  and  to  perceive  that  she  was 
now  keeping  school  to  please  herself,  and  not  to  benefit 
her  friend,  of  whom,  by  the  by,  she  saw  unaccountably 
little  ;  and  the  third  week  once  over,  her  heart  leaped  for 
joy,  —  she  knew  that  now  she  had  only  one  day  of  idle- 
ness left,  —  three  weeks  and  one  day  being  the  length  of 
this  recess. 

"Fanny,  my  dear,  have  you  seen  Ann  Salter  lately?" 
asked  the  Doctor,  as  they  sat  at  breakfast  on  that  last 


ig6  S Indies  for  Stories. 

"No,  uncle,  I  have  not  seen  her  for  a  long  while," 
answered  Fanny;  "and  she  has  not  replied  to  my  last 
letter." 

"  I  will  take  you  over  to  see  her  to-day,  if  you  wish  it," 
he  continued  ;  "  I  shall  have  to  pass  her  father's  gate.  He 
is  looking  better  than  he  has  done  for  years,  and  is  more 
active  than  ever,  I  think." 

Fanny  felt  a  pang  of  regret.  "  Then,  perhaps,  Annie 
would  like  to  come  back  to  her  situation  now,"  she  pres- 
ently said ;  "  and  perhaps  I  ought  to  menti6n  the  subject 
to  her,  uncle." 

"  I  am  very  well  satisfied  to  go  on  as  we  are,"  said  the 
Doctor. 

"  Thank  you  for  saying  so,  uncle  ;  but  I  took  the  situa- 
tion expressly  that  it  might  be  kept  open  for  Annie  ;  so  it 
would  not  be  fair  to  deprive  her  of  it." 

"  What,  are  you  in  a  hurry  to  be  free  again  ?  " 

"  O  no,"  said  Fanny,  almost  in  tears  ;  "  but  I  do  not 
wish  to  be  ungenerous." 

"  Well,  well ! "  rephed  the  Doctor ;  "  then  tell  Miss 
Salter  that  I  shall  be  happy  to  see  her  here  again  to- 
morrow, if  she  likesP 

Fanny  had  no 'question  in  her  own  mind  that  Annie 
would  like  to  come  back ;  and  she  did  not  notice  the  quiet 
smile  with  which  her  uncle  spoke. 

She  rose  from  table,  and  spent  a  few  hours  in  seeing 
that  everything  in  the  school-room  was  neat  and  in  its 
place.  "  It  is  strange,"  she  thought,  with  her  natural  sim- 
plicity, "  that  it  is  almost  impossible  to  be  contented  for 
long  together.  Every  day  I  pray  that  I  may  be  free  from 
discontent,  for  it  always  seems  to  me  a  most  unamiable 
vice  ;  and  yet  I  am  constantly  wishing  things  were  dif- 
ferent. All  the  early  part  of  the  time  that  I  taught  the 
children  I  was  longing  for  a  change,  and  wishing  I  had 
not  undertaken  the  task ;  then  we  went  to  the  sea,  and 


Dr.  Deanes  Governess.  197 

great  part  of  that  time  I  was  pining  and  fretting  to  get 
home  again  ;  then  there  were  a  few  happy  weeks,  and 
after  that  these  three  uncomfortable  weeks,  when  I  have 
been  wearied  with  wishing  to  have  school  again  ;  and 
now,  just  as  school  is  going  to  begin,  Annie  is  to  come 
back  again,  and  take  away  my  occupation.  I  wonder 
whether  other  people  are  as  discontented  as  myself.  I 
should  think  not.  They  have  aspirations,  of  course,  as 
one  may  read  in  so  many  books,  but  they  do  not  seem  to 
be  ever  discontented." 

Fanny  did  not  know  that  sometimes  people  call  their 
discontent  aspiration,  as  being  a  prettier  word,  and  mean- 
ing a  more  respectable  thing. 

After  luncheon  the  pony-carriage  came  round  to  the 
door,  and  Fanny,  well  wrapped  up,  stepped  into  it.  The 
day  had  been  cold,  but  still,  and  though  its  beauty  was  now 
over,  the  cold  was  scarcely  felt,  from  the  absence  of  wind. 
Fanny  did  not  dislike  the  drive,  though,  when  they  were 
within  two  miles  of  the  farm,  snow  began  to  descend,  and 
that  so  rapidly,  that  the  ground  was  quite  white  in  a  very 
short  time.  Fanny  was  set  down  at  the  door  of  the  farm, 
and  Ann  Salter  and  Mrs.  Salter  met  her,  and  hospitably 
conducted  her  in.  There  was  no  fire  in  the  parlor,  for,  as 
Mrs.  Salter  explained,  they  did  not  expect  \dsitors  in  such 
weather,  and  her  good  man  liked  his  meals  best  in  the 
kitchen  at  that  time  of  year.  "  But,"  said  Mrs.  Salter,  "  I 
shall  have  it  lighted  directly.  Miss  Fanny,  and  I  hope  you  '11 
take  a  cup  of  tea  with  Annie ;  for  I  know  the  Doctor  will 
be  at  least  an  hour  before  he  returns."  In  the  mean  time 
she  made  Fanny  ^it  with  her  feet  on  the  kitchen  fender,  — 
and  a  very  bright  fender  it  was  ;  the  whole  kitchen,  indeed, 
was  most  clean  and  comfortable,  and  from  its  window  you 
could  see  the  snow  coming  down,  and  the  church  spire 
gradually  getting  a  white  mantle  on  its  weather  side. 

"  I  suppose  he  HI  come  to-night,"  said  Mrs.  Salter,  re- 
turning and  addressing  her  daughter. 


198  Studies  for  Stories. 

Who  he  might  be  Mrs.  Salter  did  not  explain,  but  she 
presently  bustled  out  again,  leaving  the  two  girls  together ; 
whereupon  Fanny  unfolded  her  tale,  and  invited  Ann  Sal- 
ter, in  her  uncle's  name,  to  come  back  again. 

Ann  Salter  did  not  say  anything,  but  sat,  looking  rather 
foolish,  while  Fanny  expressed  her  kind  hope  that  the 
children  would  be  found  in  good  order,  and  perhaps  im- 
proved ;  but  when  she  added,  "  And  my  uncle  says,  he 
shall  be  happy  to  see  you  as  soon  as  you  can  return,"  Ann 
Salter  stammered  out,  "  I  should  be  very  happy,  dear  Fan- 
ny, only  I  am  afraid,  —  at  least,  I  mean,  I  think  Mr.  Dob- 
son  wishes  me  to  stop  at  home." 

"  Mr.  Dobson  ? "  repeated  Fanny,  quietly. 

"  Yes,"  said  Ann  Salter,  more  bravely ;  "  for,  as  we  are 
to  be  married  at  Easter,  he  wishes  to  see  as  much  of  me 
beforehand  as  he  can." 

Greatly  to  Ann  Salter's  relief,  Fanny  promptly  replied, 
"  Married  to  Mr.  Dobson,  Annie  ?  Oh,  I  am  so  glad,  so 
extremely  glad  !  " 

"  Are  you,  indeed  ?  "  exclaimed  Ann  Salter,  greatly  re- 
lieved. "  Well,  Fanny,  all  my  friends  are  glad,  and  say  I 
have  done  rightly  to  accept  his  oifer.  It  is  a  great  pleas- 
ure to  my  dear  parents  to  have  the  prospect  of  ,my  being 
settled  in  life  —  and  —  and  besides,  it  is  a  pleasure  to  me." 

Fanny  murmured  forth  some  congratulations. 

"  I  was  almost  afraid  you  would  not  like  my  marrying 
William  Dobson,"  Annie  continued.  Fanny  blushed  vio- 
lently, and  answered,  "  My  uncle  has  said  several  times 
that  he  would  be  a  very  suitable  husband  for  you  ;  and  if 
I  ever  thought  otherwise,  it  was  because  I  did  not  know 
any  better."  Whereupon  the  girls  both  laughed,  and  each 
secretly  felt  that  a  weight  had  been  removed  from  her 
breast ;  for  Ann  Salter  knew  the  day  must  come  when 
Fanny  must  be  told  of  her  engagement ;  and  Fanny  knew 
she  had  used  what  influence  she  possessed  against  Mr. 


Dk  Deanes  Governess.  199 

Dobson,  and  had  long  regretted  having  done  so,  for  she 
half  suspected  tha^  her  friend  had  a  preference  for  this 
worthy  man  ;  besides,  now  she  could  be  governess  to  the 
children  as  long  as  she  pleased  !  So,  in  mutual  confi- 
dence, and  with  many  expressions  of  affection,  the  two 
girls  passed  the  time,  till  Dr.  Deane  came  back  for  Fanny, 
driving  up  to  the  door  just  as  William  Dobson  walked  up 
to  it  from  the  other  side.  Thereupon  Fanny  was  formally 
introduced  to  him,  and,  to  Ann  Salter's  secret  satisfaction, 
held  out  her  hand  very  cordially  to  shake  that  of  the  "  man 
who  was  not  a  gentleman." 

It  was  very  cold,  and  it  snowed  very  hard  ;  but  Fanny 
and  her  uncle  were  exceedingly  merry  under  the  great  gig 
umbrella,  as  they  drove  home. 

"  So  now  I  feel  really  like  an  independent  woman  ;  for  I 
suppose,  uncle,  you  will  let  me  still  be  the  children's  gov- 
erness ?  " 

"  Yes,  my  dear,  as  long  as  you  wish  it." 

"  As  long  as  I  wish  it,  uncle  ?  O,  I  shall  always  wish 
it  Having  once  tasted  the  pleasure  of  independence,  I 
shall  never  hke  to  be  dependent  again." 

"I  would' not  be  too  sure  of  that.  Perhaps,  hke  the 
majority  of  your  sex,  you  may  promise,  on  due  persuasion, 
that  you  will  'honor  and  obey';  and  those  httle  words 
once  said,  what  becomes  of  independence  then  ?  "  < 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Fanny,  demurely ;  "  I  suppose  it 
must  be  left  behind  for  Dr.  Deane's  next  governess." 


THE    STOLEN    TREASURE. 


9* 


CHAPTER    I. 

COMPANIONS    AT    THE    WILLOWS. 

I  HAD  been  at  school  rather  more  than  a  year,  when 
my  class-fellows  Margaret  and  Juliet  left,  and  were 
succeeded  by  Caroline  Baker,  and  after  an  interval  of  three 
months  by  Christiana  Black,  a  girl  of  Scottish  parentage, 
who  was  at  first  a  good  deal  overlooked,  o\ving  to  her  re- 
tiring disposition. 

But  perhaps  another  reason  why  she  was  overlooked  was 
that  the  school  generally  took  such  a  very  great  interest  in 
Caroline,  who  presently  was  in  everybody's  confidence, 
and  had  something  so  engaging  and  fascinating  about  her 
that  all  the  girls  loved  her,  without  precisely  knowing  why. 
Caroline  had  not  been  among  us  a  week  before  every  one 
was  ambitious  to  give  her  anything  she  took  a  fancy  to, 
every  one  wanted  to  walk  with  her,  the  girls  offered  to 
change  gardens  with  her  if  she  showed  the  least  preference 
for  their  gardens  over  her  own,  and  the  httle  ones  were  al- 
ways persisting,  each  one,  that  it  was  her  turn  to  sit  next 
Miss  Baker,  or  that  she  had  been  promised  that  she  should 
help  Miss  Baker  to  put  her  drawers  to  rights. 

But  the  nature  of  the  charm  which  so  attracted  us  is  not 
easy  to  define  ;  and  its  cause,  strange  as  it  may  seem,  part- 
ly arose  from  what  every  one  would  acknowledge  to  be  a 
defect.     She  was  capricious,  and  very  changeable  in  her 


204  Studies  for  Stories. 

moods  and  fancies.  Never  two  days  alike,  she  kept  us 
constantly  surprised  ;  sometimes  vehement  and 'full  of  life, 
sometimes  languid  and  gentle.  One  day  she  was  earnest, 
affectionate,  or  pensive,  inviting  confidence,  and  willing  to 
give  it ;  and  the  next,  perhaps,  wearily  turning  away  from 
the  exhibition  of  the  loving  interest  that  she  had  excited. 

She  was  about  sixteen  when  she  came  to  school,  and 
was  rather  small  and  slender  for  her  years.  Her  appear- 
ance, when  first  presented  to  us  by  Madame,  is  so  fresh  in 
my  memory,  that  in  describing  her  I  feel  as  if  painting 
from  the  life. 

She  was  dressed  in  white,  and  wore  a  crimson  shawl 
over  her  shoulders,  for  the  weather  was  chilly,  and  she  was 
a  native  of  the  West  Indies.  She  held  her  bonnet  in  her 
hand,  and  stood  quite  still,  as  we  rose  and  walked  up  to 
her  to  be  introduced.  She  had  small  features,  and  was 
pretty ;  her  shining  hair,  unusually  abundant,  and  of  a 
light  brown  color,  was  a  good  deal  brushed  back  from  her 
face,  in  a  style  that  was  not  common  then,  but  which  must 
have  been  comfortable  in  the  hot  climate  she  had  come 
from.  Her  eyes  were  of  the  same  nut-brown  hue  as  her 
hair,  and  had  that  peculiar  clearness  which  causes  one  ap- 
parently to  see  far  down  into  them  ;  and  the  well-formed, 
narrow,  black  eyebrow  gave  a  great  deal  of  its  expression 
to  her  face,  being  sometimes  slightly  elevated  with  an  air 
of  amusement  or  surprise,  and  sometimes  suddenly  pulled 
down,  with  a  look  of  displeasure  and  gloom. 

I  give  this  circumstantial  account  of  her  for  the  use  of 
the  physiognomist,  and  must  add  to  it  that  she  had  a 
pretty  mouth,  which  was  dimpled,  and  almost  infantine  in 
its  sweetness.  She  seemed  to  fancy  herself  greatly  our 
superior ;  but  there  was  something  extremely  engaging  in 
the  shy  smile  with  which  she  looked  at  each  as  Madame 
named  her,  standing  as  she  did,  with  her  head  a  little 
thrown  back,  and  with  her  eyelids  not  quite  so  far  apart 


The  Stolen  Treasure.  205 

as  we  English-bred  girls  were  accustomed  to  have  them. 
In  two  or  three  days  she  discovered  that  her  school-fellows 
were  her  equals  ;  and  in  two  or  three  more  she  found  that, 
compared  with  most  of  them,  she  knew  next  to  nothing  ; 
but  she  did  not  seem  to  feel  this  at  all  a  degradation  ;  and 
the  perfection  of  her  manners,  and  her  native  elegance, 
caused  the  masters  to  treat  her  with  as  much  consideration 
as  they  did  the  eldest  pupil  in  the  house. 
.  There  was  something  about  Caroline  which  caused  her 
easily  to  win  her  way  everywhere  ;  even  Madame  was  not 
always  proof  against  her  charming  manner,  and  the  teach- 
ers openly  favored  her  in  her  lessons,  but  that  did  not 
cause  any  jealousy,  because  she  was  every  one's  favorite. 

In  the  finest  of  the  harvest  weeks  Caroline's  birthday 
came,  and  she  electrified  the  second  class  by  declaring,  the 
night  before,  that  she  intended  to  ask  Madame  for  a  holi- 
day.    Now  when  an  old  colonel  from  India,  coming  to  see 

his  daughters,  or  the  Bishop  of passing  through,  had 

begged  that  his  little  girls  might  have  a  holiday  to  play 
with  their  school-fellows,  it  had  always  been  graciously 
granted  ;  but  that  a  pupil  should  ask  such  a  favor  had 
never  entered  the  mind  of  the  eldest  or  the  most  daring. 
When  we  assembled  in  the  school-room  Caroline  went  up 
to  Madame's  table,  and  with  a  pretty  gravity  of  manner 
informed  her  of  the  important  fact,  and  inquired  whether 
the  school  might  have  a  holiday.  Madame  was  mute  with* 
astonishment,  and  all  the  classes  were  breathless  through 
suspense. 

"  Doubtless  you  have  not  been  told.  Miss  Baker,"  said 
Madame,  recovering  herself,  "  that  birthdays  are  not  kept 
here." 

Madame  spoke  in  French ;  Caroline  made  no  answer. 
She  had  been  informed  of  the  fact,  but  it  did  not  suit  her 
to  say  so,  and  she  continued  to  look  at  Madame,  till,  find- 
ing that  the  latter  expected  a  reply,  she  said,' in  the  sweet- 


206  Studies  for  Stories. 

est  tones  of  her  winning  voice,  and  in  broken  French,  that 
"  Madame  was  so  kind — so  very  kind — and  —  it  was  such 
a  fine  day." 

"Is  that  all  you  have  to  say  ?  "  asked  Madame,  with  a 
smile  of  amusement. 

"  Madame,"  said  Caroline,  taking  to  her  mother  tongue, 
and  speaking  with  a  plaintive  sweetness  that  infinitely  be- 
came her,  "  I  have  looked  in  my  French  conversations, 
and  there  are  no  sentences  in  it  that  tell  how  to  ask  for  a . 
holiday." 

Madame  cast  a  penetrating  glance  on  Carohne,  which 
seemed  to  say,  Is  this  simplicity,  or  the  perfection  of  act- 
ing ?  and  she  evidently  remained  in  doubt ;  but  Caroline 
met  the  glance  without  blushing,  and  Madame,  a  little 
irritated  at  being  so  puzzled,  escaped,  for  the  moment, 
from  a  direct  answer  to  the  request  by  saying,  with  some 
asperity,  "  I  cannot  possibly  allow  Enghsh  to  be  spoken 
before  me." 

At  this  point  it  may  be  considered  that  the  holiday  was 
all  but  won,  for  though  Madame  was  not  pleased,  she  had 
condescended  to  parley,  and  Caroline  was  too  clever  to  let 
her  advantage  slip  away.  She  answered  in  such  broken 
French  as  made  all  the  girls  smile,  bringing  in  the  name 
of  Madame's  favorite  pupil,  and  saying  that  if  Madame 
would  be  pleased  to  let  Mary  I'Estrange  ask  for  the  holi- 
'^ay,  she  was  sure  Madame  would  find  no  faults  in  her 
French,  and  she  would  leave  it  to  Mary  to  make  an  excuse 
for  her  if  she  had  done  wrong. 

Madame  looked  surprised ;  but  she  had  allowed  the  con- 
ference to  proceed,  and  did  not  wish  to  deny  the  hoUday, 
having  permitted  us  to  hope  for  it. 

"Well,"  she  said  more  graciously,  "let  Mary  speak, 
then ;  but  let  it  be  fully  understood,  young  ladies,  that  I 
am  never  to  be  asked  for  a  holiday  on  a  birthday  again." 

So  Mary  I'Estrange  did,  in  respectful  language,  and  in 


The  Stolen  Treasure.  207 

excellent  French,  ask  for  the  holiday,  and  Madame  told 
us  we  might  shut  up  our  books,  and  do  as  we  pleased  for 
the  day. 

We  all  poured  out  to  the  lawn,  and  clustered  about 
Caroline,  the  heroine  of  the  day.  We  sat  down  under 
the  shade  of  the  willow-trees  and  considered  what  we 
should  do.  It  was  a  sultry  day,  and  the  air  was  filled  with 
tiny  black  flies  like  morsels  of  thread ;  the  deep  blue  sky 
was  pure  and  cloudless,  and  transparent  waves  appeared 
to  chase  one  another  over  the  roof  of  the  house.  Miss 
Quain  began  to  explain  to  us  the  nature  of  the  phenom- 
enon, but  it  was  a  holiday,  so  we  scarcely  cared  to  listen. 
Caroline  had  never  been  so  delighted  with  the  weather. 
It  had  not  been  warm  enough  to  please  a  native  of  the 
warm  south,  and  she  proposed  that  we  should  all  take  a 
walk  into  the  harvest-field  to  see  the  people  gleaning,  — 
a  sight  she  had  never  seen.  We  did  not  think  of  object- 
ing, but  sent  Nannette  in  to  ask  Madame's  permission, 
which  we  presently  obtained,  together  with  a  promise  that 
we  should  have  some  fruit  to  take  with  us,  and  some  bread 
and  milk. 

I  was  specially  excepted  from  the  arrangement,  not  be- 
ing thought  strong  enough  to  bear  the  noonday  sun  ;  but 
Madame  gave  me  a  little  indulgence  at  home  which  recon- 
ciled me  to  the  privation  ;  and  then,  having  seen  pupils 
and  teachers  leave  the  house  in  high  spirits,  she  took  the 
opportunity  to  go  out  herself,  telling  Massey  that  she 
would  not  be  home  for  some  hours. 

I  had  been  in  the  garden  for  a  long  time,  and  in  return- 
ing to  the  house  was  surprised  to  see  a  black  man  walking 
on  the  gravel,  with  a  fair  English  child  in  his  arms.  He 
was  dressed  in  wide  white  trousers,  an  ample  white  muslin 
turban,  and  a  red  calico  jacket  with  a  muslin  one  over  it ; 
and,  to  complete  his  costume,  had  a  shawl  tied  about  his 
waist,  which  formed  both  a  petticoat  and  a  scarf. 


2o8  Studies  for  Stories. 

I  had  not  so  far  forgotten  the  scenes  of  my  infancy  (for  I 
was  born  at  Madras)  as  not  to  know  that  this  was  a  Hin- 
doo bearer,  and  that  he  was  drowsily  singing  the  child  to 
sleep  with  words  that  I  had  heard  before,  —       • 

'■'^ Niendee,  haba,  niendee.''^ 
(Sleep,  baby,  sleep.) 

I  Stood  listening  to  the  song,  remembering  enough  of 
Hindustani  to  make  out  that  the  Eastern  nurse  was  inform- 
ing his  unconscious  charge  that  his  father  was  a  burra  Sahib 
(great  man  or  lord),  and  that  his  mother  was  a  burra  Beebee 
(great  lady),  and  that  if  the  chota  Sahib  (little  master)  would 
be  good  enough  to  go  to  sleep,  he  would  confer  a  lasting 
obligation  on  his  bunda  (slave).  While  I  still  listened, 
Massey  came  out  and  said,  "  O,  Miss  West !  what  an  un- 
fortunate thing  it  is  that  Madame  should  be  out,  for  a  lady 
and  gentleman  are  here  who  particularly  wish  to  see  her. 
They  were  not  expected  till  to-morrow  ;  and  will  you  please 
to  come  in.  Miss,  for  they  wish  to  see  any  of  the  young  la- 
dies that  are  at  home." 

I  should  have  mentioned  that  a  travelling-carriage  stood 
at  the  door,  and  that  servants  were  busy  taking  down  boxes 
from  it. 

I  went  into  the  drawing-room,  and  stood  for  a  minute  or 
two  within  the  door  unnoticed,  looking  at  the  group  before 
me. 

There  was  an  ayah  (nurse)  in  the  room.  She  was  richly 
dressed  in  shawls,  silk  petticoats,  and  fine  muslin  drapery, 
and  wore  gold  bangles  on  her  ankles  and  wrists.  She  was 
holding  some  Indian  toys  in  her  hands,  and  looking  atten- 
tively at  a  lady  who  was  seated  on  a  sofa  near  her,  with  a 
gentleman  standing  on  one  side  of  her,  and  a  sweet  little 
child  on  the  other. 

This  lady  was  tall  and  fair.  I  noticed  a  peculiar  quiver- 
ing and  trembling  about  her  lips,  as  if  she  had^great  diffi- 


The  Stolen  Treasure.  209 

culty  in  controlling  herself  from  weeping,  and  the  gentle- 
man, as  he  stood  beside  her,  laid  his  hand  on  her  shoulder, 
and  said  very  gently  and  compassionately,  "  Now,  dearest, 
shall  we  kiss  our  little  one,  and  "  —  I  knew  that  the  rest  of 
the  sentence  should  have  been  —  '■'■  and  leave  her''''  j  but  he 
did  not  say  those  words.  And  the  lady,  whose  lips  were 
now  firmly  and  steadily  set  together,  did  not  answer  a  syl- 
lable, but  kept  gazing  at  the  tiny  child,  with  its  white  frock 
and  pretty  inquisitive  face  that  looked  up  to  her  so  shrewd- 
ly, and  yet  with  such  a  wistful  air,  as  if  it  was  quite  impos- 
sible for  her  to  see  or  hear  anything  else. 

"Now,  dearest,"  said  the  gentleman  again. 

The  mother  breathed  quickly,  and  I  shall  never  forget 
the  agony  of  her  brow ;  but  she  neither  stirred  nor  took 
her  eyes  from  the  face  of  the  child. 

"We  cannot  stay  till  Madame  D.  comes  home,"  said  the 
husband. 

"  I  know  it,"  she  rephed. 

"And  we  had  fully  decided  to  leave  our  child  with  her." 

"Yes,"  said  the  mother,  quite  firmly. 

"  We  are  only  called  on  to  do  it  three  days  earlier  than 
we  had  intended,"  he  proceeded. 

"All  that,"  she  answered  slowly,  "I  acknowledge  and 
know." 

She  appeared  to  speak  like  a  person  in  a  dream,  and  the 
attentive  Httle  child,  with  hands  firmly  pressed  together, 
seemed  to  regard  her  with  wondering  gravity. 

The  gentleman  sighed,  as  if  he  infinitely  dreaded  the 
scene  that  must  ensue.  Once  more  he  said,  "  Now,  dear- 
est," and  at  the  same  moment  he  beckoned  to  the  ayah, 
who,  in  obedience  to  some  words  that  he  spoke  in  Hin- 
dustani, came  forward  and  took  up  the  little  child  in  her 
arms. 

Then  the  mother  burst  into  tears,  and  begged  for  a  few 
moments  more,  and  took  the  child  upon  her  knees,  and  be- 

N 


2IO         .  Studies  for  Stories. 

gan  to  caress  her,  and  lament  over  her.  Poor  little  crea- 
ture, she  was  far  from  understanding  the  real  and  terrible 
loss  that  she  was  about  to  undergo  :  and  when  the  lady- 
said,  "  Does  my  darling  know  that  poor  mamma  must  go 
away  ?  "  she  only  nodded  her  little  head,  and  said  gravely, 
"  Yes  "  ;  and  then  began  to  occupy  herself  with  her  moth- 
er's rings. 

Just  then  the  gentleman  observed  my  presence,  and 
came  to  lead  me  forward  to  his  wife,  asking  me  if  I  were 
one  of  the  pupils. 

I  said  I  was,  and  the  lady  held  out  her  hand,  and  drew 
me  towards  her,  asking  hysterically  whether  I  would  be 
kind  to  her  httle  child,  and  saying,  "  I  am  sorry,  so  very 
sorry,  that  Carry  should  be  out.  I  did  want  to  see  her,  and 
beg  her  to  be  kind  to  my  Httle  one,  and  be  her  school- 
mamma." 

On  this  mention  of  Caroline,  the  gentleman  began  to  tell 
me  that  he  was  an  intimate  friend  of  Major  Baker's,  and 
had  been  partly  induced  to  bring  his  child  to  the  Willows, 
in  the  hope  that  Carry  would  love  her. 

I  could  not  but  declare  that  I  thought  CaroHne  would  be 
extremely  good  and  kind  to  her.  I  fully  participated  in 
the  feeling  of  attraction  that  we  all  felt  towards  Caroline, 
and  I  drew  such  a  picture  of  her  delightful  quahties,  that 
the  lady  was  evidently  comforted,  and,  drawing  me  closer, 
made  me  kneel  on  a  hassock  beside  her,  and,  with  moth- 
erly tenderness,  held  my  head  with  her  hand  against  her 
bosom.  The  other  embraced  her  child,  and  through  the 
glossy  folds  of  her  rich  silk  dress  I  could  feel  the  troubled 
beating  of  her  heart. 

But  the  dreaded  moment  was  come  ;  the  gentleman,  who 
looked  as  if  he  longed  above  all  things  to  have  this  scene 
over,  pulled  out  his  watch,  and  the  movement  attracted  the 
poor  mother's  notice,  for  she  said  something  in  a  broken 
voice  to  the  ayah,  who,  folding  her  hands  submissively, 


The  Stolen   Treasure.  2ii 

made  a  low  salaam.  I  remembered  enough  of  my  first 
language  to  know  that  she  was  promising  to  be  tender  and 
attentive  to  the  child.  .  Her  speech  was  scarcely  over  when 
the  father  lifted  up  the  little  girl,  and  held  her  face  to  her 
mother's  for  a  moment,  then  he  kissed  her  himself,  and  put 
her  hastily  into  the  arms  of  her  ayah,  who  hurried  with  her 
out  of  the  room. 

The  mother,  after  this  last  kiss,  covered  her  face  with 
her  hands,  and  sat  so  still  that  I  thought  she  was  listening 
to  the  retreating  footsteps  of  the  ayah  as  she  carried  her 
treasure  away.  When  these  were  no  longer  audible,  she 
looked  up  and  said,  — 

"  Merton,  I  wish  to  go." 

Massey  then  put  on  her  shawl  and  veil,  and  when  she 
had  picked  up  a  little  Indian  toy  that  her  child  had  dropped 
on  the  carpet,  and  put  it  in  her  bosom,  she  gave  her  hand 
to  her  husband,  who  led  her  to  the  carriage.  A  message 
of  compliment  and  regret  being  left  for  Madame,  and  an 
assurance  that  she  should  receive  a  letter  that  same  even- 
ing, they  drove  away,  and  I  ran  up  stairs  to  look  for  the 
tiny  pupil. 


2 1 2  Studies  for  Stories. 


CHAPTER    II. 

madame's   new  pupil. 

I  WAITED  only  till  the  sound  of  the  carriage-wheels 
had  died  away,  and  then  ran  up  stairs  in  search  of  the 
little  girl.  I  found  her  with  her  ayah,  seated  on  the  floor 
of  a  spare  bedroom,  with  a  number  of  toys  strewed  about 
in  all  directions. 

I  understood  that  she  was  about  four  years  old,  but  she 
was  scarcely  larger  than  mosf  children  at  two.  She  was 
rather  pale,  and  excessively  fair  ;  a  quantity  of  flaxen  hair 
curled  on  her  neck ;  she  wore  a  white  frock  of  Indian 
muslin,  richly  worked  ;  and  a  gold  chain,  with  a  locket 
attached  to  it,  encircled  her  throat.  Her  toys,  which  con- 
sisted of  ivory  elephants  richly  gilded,  models  of  soldiers 
and  sepoys,  bullock-carts,  palanquins  of  gaudy  colors,  and 
curious  carved  balls,  made  her  look,  by  their  large  size, 
all  the  more  fairy-Hke  and  small.  Her  pretty  face  was  not 
infantine  in  its  expression  ;  and  the  air  of  command  with 
which  she  ordered  her  ayah  to  set  me  a  chair  would  have 
been  more  suited  to  a  reigning  princess  than  to  a  child 
who  was  now  to  be  for  many  years  entirely  under  the 
dominion  of  strangers. 

I  heard  the  ayah  informing  her  that  the  "Beebee  Sahib" 
would  soon  be  back  again ;  and  the  little  creature  looked 
at  her  with  a  wistful  expression  of  doubt,  as  if  she  sus- 
pected that  these  flattering  words  were  too  good  to  be 
true.  I  asked  her  if  she  would  kiss  me,  but  this  she 
positively  refused  to  do  ;  and  then  I  asked  her  if  she 
would  come  into  the  garden  and  have  a  nosegay,  but  she 


The  Stolen  Treasure.  213 

was  an  independent  little  creature,  and  when  she  had  risen 
from  the  floor,  and  walked  up  to  me,  and  examined  me 
from  head  to  foot,  she  dechned  this  also,  and  then  com- 
manded her  ayah  to  bring  her  bonnet,  and  carry  her  down 
into  the  "  compound,"  by  which  she  meant  the  garden  or 
yard.  So  I  was  left  alone  among  her  Indiafi  toys  till  my 
schoolfellows  came  in  from  their  walk,  with  CaroHne  at 
their  head.  Caroline  was  reading  a  letter,  and  looked 
very  much  disconcerted  ;  but  the  other^  girls  were  laugh- 
ing, and  questioning  her  as  to  where  the  strange  little 
child  had  come  from  that  they  had  seen  in  the  garden, 
with  her  foreign  nurse. 

Miss  I'Estrange  had  taken  her  up  in  her  arms,  but  had 
received  a  slap  in  return  from  the  tiny  hand,  together  with 
peremptory  orders  to  set  her  down  again  ;  and  little  Nan- 
nette  had  presented  a  paper  of  sugar-plums,  but  the  in- 
tractable infant  had  scattered  them  over  the  grass,  and 
thrown  away  the  paper. 

What  she  suspected,  or  why  she  was  so  averse  to  our 
companionship,  we  did  not  know  ;  perhaps  she  felt  herself 
in  some  manner  wronged  and  deceived  by  her  mother's 
absence,  and  had  some  childish  gUmmering  of  the  truth, 
that  she  was  at  the  mercy  of  strangers. 

CaroHne  had  finished  reading  her  letter.  "And  so," 
she  exclaimed,  giving  a  sHght  toss  to  her  graceful  head, 
"  and  so  Mrs.  Merton  expects  me,  or  at  least  wishes  me, 
to  devote  myself  to  this  little  female  nabob.  Here  is  a 
long  account  of  how  she  hopes  I  will  always  be  a  friend  to 
the  child.  Ridiculous  !  Am  I  to  bear  with  all  her  whims, 
because  ten  years  ago  our  fathers  were  in  the  same  regi- 
ment ?  And  she  shall  always  be  grateful ;  —  I  dare  say  ! 
No,  I  never  could  bear  children  at  such  an  early  age.  If 
this  had  been  a  girl  as  old  as  myself,  it  might  have  been  a 
different  matter;  but  a  spoilt  baby  Hke  this,  I  wonder 
how  she  could  be  so  absurd ;  and  actually  it  seems  that 


214  Studies  for  Stories. 

the  child  is  sent  here  principally  on  papa's  recommenda- 
tion, and  because  I  am  here.  How  tiresome  !  here  she 
comes." 

Here  she  came,  indeed,  in  her  ayah's  arms,  and  Belle 
ran  up  to  hei^as  girls  will  do  to  little  children,  and  begged 
a  kiss. 

"  Do  kiss  me,"  said  Belle.     The  child  shook  her  head. 

"  Why  not  ?  "  asked  Belle. 

"  Because  I  don't  Hke  you,"  said  the  little  creature,  in  a 
sweet  treble  voice. 

"  Not  Hke  me  !  why  not  ?  " 

"  Because,  because,"  looking  at  her  to  find  a  reason, 
"  because  you  've  got  an  ugly  bonnet  on." 

"  Well,  kiss  me,  then,"  said  Caroline,  a  little  tartly ; 
"look,  I  have  no  bonnet  at  all." 

"  No,  I  don't  like  you." 

"Why  not?" 

Another  pause  for  reflection,  and  then  in  a  pettish  tone, 
"  Because  you  are  a  cross  lady." 

"  There  !  "  exclaimed  Caroline  triumphantly,  "  did  ever 
any  one  see  such  a  capricious  little  thing  ?  Oh !  very  well ; 
I  don't  at  all  want  to  kiss  you.  Yes  !  the  idea  of  my  de- 
voting myself  to  that  child,  and  being  her  school-mamma. 
I  shall  not  think  of  it ;  any  one  who  chooses  may  take  her 
in  hand." 

"  O  Carry,"  said  Belle,  "  it  would  be  very  little  trouble 
indeed  to  be  her  school-mamma  ;  she  has  this  nurse  of  her 
own  to  attend  to  all  her  whims,  and  in  school-hours  she 
would  be  in  a  different  class  from  yours. '•* 

"  And  she  would  go  to  bed  long  before  you,"  added  Miss 
Ward. 

"  That  does  not  signify,"  said  CaroHne  ;  "  I  do  not  con- 
sider that  her  mamma  had  any  right  to  expect  me  to  be 
more  interested  in  her  than  I  am  in  any  of  you.  I  like  to 
do  kindness  spontaneously ;  but  to  have  it  represented  that 


The  Stolen   Treasure.  215 

I  ought  to  do  it,  takes  away  all  the  pleasure  of  it ;  makes  it 
something  that  one  is  to  be  blamed  for  if  one  does  not  per- 
form, but  not  to  be  praised  for  if  one  does  !  So,  Mrs. 
Merton,  you  must  look  somewhere  else  for  your  monthly 
accounts  of  the  health  and  progress  of  this  httle  spoilt  pet, 
—  though  to  be  sure  it  will  be  no  great  trouble  just  to 
write  tlie  letters.  I  will  do  that,  and  I  think  it  is  enough 
for  a  person  whom  I  have  never  seen." 

"  I  cannot  understand  how  you  got  this  letter,"  said 
Miss  Ward  ;  "it  seems  to  have  followed  the  visit  with 
marvellous  rapidity." 

"  O,  it  was  written  here,"  rephed  Carohne  ;  "  wiien  Mrs. 
Merton  found  that  I  was  out,  Massey  says  she  sat  down 
directly  and  wrote  this,  and  said  it  was  to  be  given  to  me 
on  my  return." 

"  Well,  Carry,"  said  Belle,  "  it  is  very  flattering  that  she 
should  consider  your  patronage  of  so  much  consequence 
for  the  child ;  don't  you  think  so,  Sophia  ?  " 

"  So  flattering,"  I  replied,  "  that  I  only  wish  some  one 
would  flatter  me  in  the  same  way ;  I  think  it  would  make 
me  quite  devote  myself  to  the  little  creature,  though  she 
may  be  rather  spoilt  at  present" 

"  The  fairy  wishes  to  patronize  another  fairy !  "  ex- 
claimed Caroline. 

Upon  this  the  elder  girls  laughed,  and  Miss  I'Estrange 
snatched  me  up  in  Jier  arms,  and  in  spite  of  my  resist- 
ance persisted  in  carrying  me  about,  caressing  me,  and 
pretending  to  sing  me  to  sleep,  as  nurses  do  to  babies. 

I  was  very  angry,  though  I  could  not  help  laughing ; 
and  when  I  had  contrived  to  struggle  down  again,  I  in- 
formed my  friend  and  patroness  that  now  I  was  fourteen 
years  and  eight  months  old,  —  eight  months,  mind,  —  so 
that  I  should  soon  be  fifteen,  and  I  did  not  choose  to  be 
carried  about  any  longer.  My  offended  dignity  might 
have  induced  me  to  march  out  of  the  room,  if  I  had  not 


2i6  Studies  for  Stories. 

been  arrested  by  the  sound  of  fits  of  infantine  laughter, 
and,  behold  !  the  little  stranger  was  pointing  to  us  with 
her  finger,  and  laughing  till  her  pretty  face  and  neck  were 
tinged  with  carnation.  She  evidently  thought  this  little 
scene  was  got  up  for  her  special  diversion,  and  cried  out, 
"  Do  it  again,  do  it  again,  great  tall  lady." 

It  would  no  doubt  have  been  repeated,  in  spite  of  my 
resistance,  if  a  clear  voice  within  the  room  had  not  arrested 
our  attention. 

"  Vhat  do  I  see,  ladies  ?  for  vhat  do  you  teaze  Miss 
Sophia  ?  "  said  Madame. 

Her  neat  figure  is  still  before  me,  the  pale  green  rib- 
bons and  feather  which  adorned  her  tasteful  bonnet,  and 
which  so  many  of  her  nation  are  fond  of  placing  next  to 
their  rich  brown  skins  and  dark  eyes  ;  the  delicate  light 
shawl  of  mulberry  color,  which  she  held  so  elegantly,  and 
her  rusthng  lilac  silk  dress. 

"  Comment^  what  noise  do  I  hear  1  "  she  exclaimed. 

Madame  never  attempted  to  speak  English,  excepting 
on  a  holiday,  when  she  so  far  relaxed  from  her  ordinary 
manner  as  even  to  joke  with  us. 

"  So,  La  petite  does  not  like  to  pass  for  a  7^?^,"  she  ex- 
claimed ;  "  for  what  should  she  not  ?  Les  fees  —  the  fairies 
—  are  very  pretty  httle  things." 

"  Yes,  Madame,"  said  Miss  I'Estrange,  "  much  prettier 
than  the  Amazons." 

Madame  smiled,  and  looking  up  at  the  stately  height  of 
her  pupil,  replied  with  a  French  proverb  which  intimates 
that  though  little  things  are  pretty,  great  things  are  sub- 
lime. At  this  moment  the  group  of  girls  parted,  and  showed, 
seated  among  her  toys,  the  new  arrival,  and  her  submis- 
sive ayah.  The  latter  arose  and  made  a  graceful  salaam, 
as  if  perceiving  at  once  that  this  was  the  mistress  of  the 
house. 

Madame  did  not  seem  so  much  surprised  as  might  have 


The  Stolen  Treasure.  217 

been  expected  ;  the  fact  was,  she  had  met  the  travelling- 
carriage  on  its  way  to  the  railway,  and  had  spent  a  short 
time  with  the  child's  parents  at  the  station. 

"  And  for  what  are  they  shown  into  this  dull  apartment  ?  " 
asked  Madame. 

Dull  it  certainly  was,  for  the  upper  shutters  of  the  room 
were  closed,  and  the  blinds  drawn  down  ;  the  bed  was 
pinned  up  in  brown  hoUand  covers,  and  the  carpets  were 
rolled  back  into  a  corner. 

Madame  desired  us  to  open  the  shutters,  and  when  the 
sunshine  was  let  in,  she  sat  down,  and  said,  "  Come  to  me, 
little  one." 

The  child  arose  and  stood  at  her  knees,  answering  sev- 
eral simple  questions  with  that  respect  which  Madame 
scarcely  ever  failed  to  inspire.  When  she  had  done  talk- 
ing to  her,  she  lifted  her  up  and  said,  "  Kiss  me."  She 
was  obeyed,  and  the  little  creature  being  set  down  again, 
looked  at  her  attentively,  and  as  if  to  inform  her  that  the 
kiss  had  been  given  under  protest,  lisped  out  in  the  sweet- 
est of  silvery  tones,  "  But  I  don't  love  you." 

"  Do  you  know  who  I  am  .?  "  said  Madame,  very  gravely. 

"  No,"  said  the  child,  hesitating. 

Madame  told  her,  and  added,  "  Little  girls  never  say  that 
to  me  ;  little  girls  must  be  good  in  my  house." 

"  Yes,"  said  the  child,  whose  hands  were  clasped  be- 
hind her. 

"  You  are  going  to  be  good  ? " 

"Yes." 

"  Then  you  may  take  hold  of  my  hand,  and  come  with 
me  to  see  your  pretty  bed." 

The  little  creature,  in  the  most  docile  manner,  did  as 
she  was  bidden,  only  looking  rather  wistfully  at  her  toys. 
Madame,  seeing  this,  made  a  sign  to  the  ayah  to  bring  them, 
and  at  the  same  time  said,  "  The  ladies  of  the  second  class 
may  follow  also." 

10 


2 1 8  Studies  for  Stories. 

So  we  followed  to  our  own  large  bedroom,  beyond 
which  was  another  wide  room,  hitherto  unoccupied.  The 
door  of  this  room,  to  which  ours  was  a  thoroughfare,  was 
now  open.  Massey  was  in  it,  and  we  found  that  it  was 
fitted  up  like  a  nursery,  indeed  it  had  formerly  been  used 
as  such  ;  and  it  now  contained  a  rocking-horse,  some  chil- 
dren's chairs,  and  two  beds,  one  of  which  was  adorned 
with  muslin  curtains,  tied  back  by  pink  ribbons. 

Madame's  French  taste  was  very  evident  in  all  the 
decorations  of  this  airy  room ;  she  now  looked  at  it  with 
much  approval ;  so  apparently  did  the  child. 

"Is  that  a  pretty  bed  .? "  asked  Madame. 

"  Yes,"  said  the  little  creature,  with  a  delighted  smile. 

"  I  told  you  to  come  up,  ladies,"  said  Madame,  turning 
towards  us,  "  to  inform  you  that  you  have  free  leave  from 
me  to  come  in  here  and  play  with  this  dear  little  girl,  so 
long  as  she  is  good,  and  you  do  not  abuse  the  privilege." 

She  said  this  in  French,  but  repeated  something  Kke  it 
in  English,  for  the  benefit  of  the  child.  I  remember  being 
struck  at  the  time  with  the  truth  of  what  I  had  heard  the 
elder  girls  say,  namely,  that  in  cases  where  Madame  could 
secure  obedience  she  was  firmly  determined  to  be  obeyed ; 
but  that  in  cases  where  she  could  not,  she  would  grant 
permission  to  do  things  that  she  would  rather  not  have  al- 
lowed, simply  that  none  of  the  pupils  might  find  themselves 
able  to  elude  her  vigilance  or  thwart  her  with  impunity. 

I  have  said  there  was  no  entrance  to  this  room  but 
through  ours,  and  as  the  ayah  could  not  speak  English, 
Madame  perhaps  thought  we  should  have  been  induced, 
by  the  facilities  offered,  to  come  and  play  with  the  child. 

We  were  to  go  in  whenever  we  pleased ;  so  accordingly, 
that  same  night,  as  we  were  undressing,  we  were  pleased 
to  open  the  door  softly  and  peep  in.  There  lay  the  little 
creature  fast  asleep  in  her  embroidered  night-dress,  and 
there  lay  her  ayah  fast  asleep  also,  not  in  the  bed  that  had 


The  Stolen   Treasure.  219 

been  prepared  for  her,  but  on  the  carpet  at  the  foot  of  the 
child's  bed,  and  rolled  up  in  the  checked  table-cloth  of  red 
and  blue  that  she  had  taken  from  its  place. 

"  I  am  glad  Madame  has  said  nothing  to  me  about 
taking  any  particular  notice  of  the  "child,"  said  Caroline  ; 
"and  I  am  sure  when  every  one  else  is  so  much  inter- 
ested there  can  be  no  need  fOr  my  exerting  myself." 

I  thought  Caroline  said  this  as  if  she  felt  somewhat 
injured  by  the  notice  taken  of  the  little  creature,  and  at 
first  I  remember  feeling  ashamed  of  myself  and  reproach- 
ing myself  for  the  notice  I  had  taken,  as  if  it  were  a  kind  of 
treason  to  one  in  whom  I  had  professed  such  an  absorbing 
interest  myself  But  afterwards  I  began  to  reflect  that  it 
would  be  unamiable  in  Caroline  to  have  such  feehngs  as 
I  had  imputed  to  her ;  consequently,  as  she  was  so  very 
charming  and  so  amiable,  I  decided  that  she  had  them  not. 

So  this  matter  passed.  I  think  it  was  on  the  2d  of 
August  that  the  little  pupil  came  to  us,  and  for  three  weeks 
from  that  day  she  received  every  morning  a  short  lesson 
from  the  Enghsh  teacher,  her  ayah  standing  beside  her. 
She  was  perfectly  good  and  docile  in  the  school-room,  but 
during  play-hours  she  behaved  just  as  she  had  done  at 
first,  declining  to  be  caressed  or  played  with  by  the  elder 
girls,  though  she  would  sometimes  amuse  herself  with 
Madame's  two  little  girls,  provided  her  ayah  stood  beside 
her  the  whole  time. 

I  could  sometimes  hear  her  talking  to  this  devoted  wo- 
man about  her  mamma :  "  Would  she  soon  come  back  ?  " 

"  O  yes,  very  soon." 

"  Would  she  come  to-day  ?  " 

"  No,  not  to-day." 

"  Would  she  come  to-morrow  ?  " 

"  Perhaps." 

Alas  !  the  poor  Hindoo  knew  not  the  fault  she  was  com- 
mitting, and  had  not  acquired  enough  English  to  be  told 
of  it. 


220  Studies  for  Stories. 

"  I  don't  believe  you,"  said  the  little  creature,  when  this 
happy  to-morrow  had  been  promised  a  great  many  times  : 
and  using  her  Oriental  imagery,  she  exclaimed,  "  You  have 
no  straight  words,  you've  got  a  whole  co7intry  full  of 
words  in  your  heart,  but  they  're  all  crooked  ones  ! " 

The  ayah  smiled,  and  shaking  up  a  pillow  invited  Missy 
Baba  to  go  to  sleep.  She  was  unwearied, in  her  attendance 
and  devoted  in  her  love  to  the  child ;  but  about  the  begin- 
ning of  September  we  all  observed  that  one  day  she  looked 
extremely  heavy,  and  muttered  and  rocked  herself  as  she 
sat  on  the  ground.  Her  eyes  followed  the  child's  move- 
ments with  an  air  of  unutterable  regret,  and  Massey  dis- 
covering that  she  was  ill  tried  to  make  her  go  to  bed ;  but 
she  preferred  to  sit  on  the  floor,  and  though  she  sighed 
often  she  did  not  complain. 

Very  soon  finding  that  she  could  neither  move  nor  eat, 
Madame  sent  for  a  physician.  It  was  a  piteous  sight  to 
see  her  sitting  on  the  floor  with  her  little  nursling  beside 
her,  not  able  to  make  the  physician  understand  the  nature 
of  her  suffering,  and  quietly  refusing  to  take  his  medicines. 

I  was  called  to  ask  her  what  ailed  her,  but  she  did  not 
answer,  though  she  spoke  to  her  pretty  nursling  when  she 
babbled  in  her  native  tongue. 

Poor  ayah,  she  was  very  patient,  and  the  child,  who 
refused  to  leave  her,  was  carried  away  in  her  sleep  to 
another  room,  but  this  was  not  till  the  poor  woman  was 
too  ill  to  observe  her  absence.  Two  days  of  gloom  and 
anxiety  followed,  the  child  being  hardly  pacified  and  kept 
away  from  her  ayah,  by  assurances  that  the  least  noise 
would  make  her  worse. 

On  the  third  morning  Madame  sent  for  me  early  to  her 
own  room,  and  on  the  way  thither  Massey_  told  me  that  the 
ayah  was  dead.  Madame  was  then  telling  the  poor  deso- 
late child  of  her  loss,  and  wished  me  to  be  there  because 
I  could  understand  her  when  she  spoke  in  her  Oriental 
tongue. 


The  Stolen  Treasure.  221 


CHAPTER    III. 

MAY    MERTON    FINDS    A    FRIEND. 

I  ENTERED  Madame's  room  with  no  little  trepida- 
tion, and  saw  my  poor  little  schoolfellow  sitting  on  a 
stool.  She  did  not  exhibit  any  violent  grief,  but  there  was 
a  painfully  forlorn  expression  about  her  always  wistful  face  ; 
and  though  she  did  not  cry,  she  would  neither  eat  nor  take 
any  notice  of  our  caresses. 

When  the  school-bell  rang,  Madame  sent  me  down,  for  I 
was  of  no  use.  The  teachers  inquired  after  the  poor  child, 
and  one  of  them  said,  that  though  she  was  very  sorry  for 
the  poor  ayah,  she  thought  her  removal  was  by  no  means 
to  be-  regretted  on  the  child's  account ;  because  as  long  as 
that  foreign  woman  was  about  her,  she  would  never  have 
thoroughly  settled  at  school,  nor  attached  herself  to  those 
who  had  the  responsibility  of  her  teaching.  I  could  not 
tell  how  this  might  be,  but  I  thought  that,  even  to  a  child, 
it  must  be  a  terrible  thing  to  lose  the  only  person  whom 
she  deeply  loved,  and  with  whom  she  was  thoroughly  at 
home.  I  hoped  she  would  now  begin  to  attach  herself  to 
us,  and  soon  get  over  the  loss  of  her  ayah. 

But  from  day  to  day,  when  I  saw  her,  she  was  still 
pining  and  fretting,  sometimes  moping  on  her  httle  stool, 
sometimes  crying  in  Massey's  arms,  and  constantly  becom- 
ing thinner  and  paler,  losing  her  appetite,  and  refusing  to 
do  as  she  was  bid. 

At  first  Madame  hoped  she  would  soon  forget  her  grief, 
but  when  three  or  four  weeks  had  passed  away,  and  still 
the  tiny  face  grew  thin,  and  the  little  sorrowful  voice  was 


222  Studies  for  Stories. 

heard  wailing  in  the  night,  she  became  seriously  unhappy 
about  the  child ;  for  she  was  too  young  to  be  reasoned 
with,  too  ill  to  be  punished,  and  too  far  away  from  her 
parents  to  be  sent  home.  Sometimes  they  would  take  her 
out  for  a  drive,  or  think  to  amuse  her  by  bringing  her 
down  into  the  garden,  but  after  taking  a  few  steps  she 
would  put  her  wasted  hand  to  her  side,  and  say  in  a  pite- 
ous voice,  "It  hurts  here  ;  it  always  hurts  here,"  and  beg 
to  be  taken  in  again.  Her  medical  attendant  said  it  was 
extremely  bad  for  her  to  fret  and  cry.  He  assured  Mad- 
ame he  could  do  nothing  for  her  unless  she  was  kept  calm 
and  cheerful ;  an  easy  thing  to  say,  but  difficult  to  accom- 
plish, for  every  dose  of  medicine  cost  a  contention  and  a 
passion  of  tears  that  almost  exhausted  her  feeble  frame ; 
and  though  she  was  tempted  with  many  dainties,  she  could 
hardly  eat  enough  to  sustain  life. 

Madame  was  accustomed  to  be  implicitly  obeyed,  and 
scarcely  knew  how  to  deal  with  this  poor  infant,  who  set 
her  authority  utterly  at  naught,  and  was  not  to  be  flattered 
or  caressed  into  submission.  She  had  not  been  well 
brought  up,  and  though  when  in  health  she  had  yielded  to 
an  influence  that  kept  the  boldest  spirits  in  order,  she  now 
ceased  to  care  for  praise  or  blame,  and  all  her  original  wil- 
fulness came  back  again. 

Madame  was  evidently  quite  wretched,  and  was  losing 
confidence  in  herself  altogether.  She  caused  each  teacher 
in  turn  to  try  her  powers  with  the  child,  then  she  called  in 
the  elder  girls,  and  encouraged  them  to  exert  themselves 
to  make  the  little  sufferer  take  her  medicine.  But  all  was 
of  no  avail ;  low  fever  came  on,  and  life  seemed  actually  to 
depend  on  a  docility  that  it  was  quite  hopeless  to  expect 
from  her. 

Yet  the  wilfulness  of  a  httle  child  does  not  alienate  affec- 
tion. There  was  still  something  sweet  in  the  baby  resent- 
ment that  blamed  "  all  the  cruel  ladies  "  for  taking  away 


The  Stolen  Treasure,  223 

her  mamma  and  her  nurse.  The  httle  voice,  in  all  its  sor- 
row, was  still  silvery  and  touching,  and  the  wistful  features 
were  still  pretty,  though  marred  by  tears  and  illness. 

It  was  about  this  time  that  Miss  Black  came  among  us, 
but,  as  I  have  said  before,  her  coming  attracted  little  atten- 
tion ;  our  thoughts,  when  not  occupied  with  the  child,  were 
all  given  to  Caroline.  Miss  Black  always  inquired  with 
great  interest  about  the  poor  little  creature,  but  Madame 
never  thought  of  asking  her  to  come  and  see  her,  because 
she  was  a  stranger. 

One  night,  when  we  were  all  quite  unhappy  about  our 
little  schoolfellow,  I  was  called  in  to  see  if  I  could  make 
her  take  her  food  by  talking  Hindustani  to  her.  I  did  not 
succeed,  but  as  Madame  did  not  desire  me  to  withdraw,  I 
sat  by  the  bed  thinking  how  mournful  all  this  was,  and 
wishing  there  was  something  more  useful  for  me  to  do  than 
snuffing  the  candle  which  stood  on  a  small  table  beside  her. 

Poor  Httle  child  !  I  remember  her  wailing  voice  as  she 
sat  half-upright  in  her  bed,  peevishly  refusing  either  to 
take  her  supper  or  to  lie  down  and  sleep,  when  the  door 
into  our  bedroom  was  softly  pushed  open,  and  Miss  Black 
came  in,  with  a  long  white  dressing-gown  on. 

I  thought  she  came  to  see  what  she  could  do  to  help  us, 
but  apparently  it  was  not  the  case.  Miss  Black  did  not 
look  at  us,  but  at  something  soft  that  lay  upon*  her  arm, 
and  she  swept  close  up  to  the  bed  without  saying  a  word. 
Madame,  utterly  dispirited,  was  weeping  behind  the'  cur- 
tain. The  child  paused  in  her  low  cry,  arrested  by  the 
sight  of  the  stranger,  and  said,  "  Who's  that,  with  her  best 
frock  on?" 

"  I've  got  something  so  pretty  here,"  said  Miss  Black, 
still  looking  down  upon  lier  arm  ;  "  I  don't  know  whether 
I  shall  show  it  to  anybody."  She  seemed  to  consider,  and 
in  the  meantime  the  child  regarded  her  with  fixed  and  won- 
dering attention. 


224  Studies  for  Stories. 

"  If  I  knew  of  any  very  good  child,  perhaps  I  should 
show  these  little  things  to  hef,"  said  Miss  Black,  pretend- 
ing to  talk  to  herself. 

"  Wee,  wee,  wee  !  "  cried  the  things  on  .her  arm. 

"  But  I  dare  say  nobody  wdnts  to  see  them,"  she  con- 
tinued. 

"  I  want  to  see  them,"  said  the  child,  checking  a  long 
sob. 

"  Ah  !  "  said  Miss  Black,  "  they  seem  very  hungry,  poor 
little  things  ! " 

"Wee  —  wee  —  wee!" 

"  O  !  do  show  them  to  me,"  sobbed  the  child  ;  and  when 
Miss  Black  took  up  two  tiny  kittens  by  the  neck,  set  them 
on  the  bed,  and  let  them  creep  towards  her,  she  was  so  de- 
lighted that  she  began  to  laugh,  and  try  to  feed  them  with 
some  of  the  bread  and  milk  which  she  had  been  vainly  im- 
plored to  eat  for  her  supper. 

"  O  !  they  cannot  eat  bread,"  said  Miss  Black,  quietly, 
"  they  are  too  young ;  but  when  we  have  emptied  the  sau- 
cer, they  shall  have  some  milk  in  it." 

She  sat  by  the  child  and  supported  her  feeble  frame. 
"Now,  then,"  she  said,  "let  us  eat  this,"  and  she  held  the' 
spoon  to  the  child's  mouth,  which  was  opened  half  uncon- 
sciously;  for  Miss  Black  had  begun  to  relate  a  wonderful 
story  about  four  white  kittens  who  lived  in  a  hay-loft.  The 
child  listened  with  rapt  attention  till  the  supper  was  eaten, 
when  the  tale  came  to  a  sudden  conclusion ;  then  some 
milk  was  poured  into  the  saucer,  and  the  real  kittens  were 
fed. 

When  they  had  lapped  every  drop  of  the  milk,  Miss 
Black  produced  a  little  basket  and  a  piece  of  flannel,  in 
which  she  let  the  child  help  to  place  these  playthings  that 
had  appeared  so  opportunely.  • 

"Now,  then,"  she  said,  "let  us  put  them  on  the  table, 
and  you  shall  sit  on  my  knee,  and  peep  at  them,  while 


The  Stolen   T7'easure.  225 

Miss  West  shakes  up  the  pillow,  and  makes'*  the  bed  all 
smooth  and  comfortable." 

No  objection  was  made  to  this  arrangement,  but  the  lit- 
tle wasted  arms  were  held  out,  and  the  child,  almost  too 
weak  now  to  rise,  tried  to  creep  away  from  the  pillows  to 
her  new  friend,  suffering  herself  to  be  nursed  and  fondled 
till  she  could  be  placed  comfortably  in  her  bed  again. 
Then,  indeed,  her  face  changed,  and  she  said  in  a  piteous 
tone,  "  But  I  don't  want  you  to  go  away.  I  want  you  to 
get  into  my  bed.     Will  you  } " 

Miss  Black  darted  a  glance  at  Madame,  who  nodded 
assent.  "  O  yes,"  she  said.  "  I  should  like  to  sleep  in 
your  pretty  bed  very  much." 

"  And  I  may  see  the  kittens  to-morrow  1 " 

"  O  yes  !  "  repeated  Miss  Black,  lying  down  beside  the 
child,  whose  chest  still  heaved  every  now  and  then  with  a 
deep  sob,  but  who  was  so  completely  wearied  and  faint  for 
want  of  sleep,  and  the  comfort-cherishing  that  children  so 
much  require,  that  now  she  was  with  some  one  who  could 
manage  her,  she  fell  at  once  into  a  deep  sleep,  and  her  Ut- 
tle  wayward  face  began  to  look  calm  and  almost  happy. 

Madame  had  kept  completely  in  the  background  from 
the  moment  of  Miss  Black's  entrance,  and  when  she  saw 
that  the  child  would  soon  be  asleep,  she  made  a  sign  to  me 
to  remain  perfectly  still.  She  looked  so  happy,  when  at 
length  she  came  up  to  the  bed,  and  shading  the  candle 
with  her  hand,  drew  back  the  curtain,  and  saw  her  poor  Ut- 
tle  pupil  fast  asleep. 

"Ah  !  this  has  been  a  terrible  anxiety  to  me,"  she  mur- 
mured, and  then  she  stooped  and  kissed  Miss  Black,  —  a 
thing  I  had  never  seen  her  do  to  any  pupils  but  the  little 
ones.  "  I  am  greatly  indebted  to  you,  my  dear,"  I  heard 
her  say  ;  "  you  have  relieved  me  from  great  dread  for  this 
desolate  child." 

Miss  Black  cautiously  turned  her  face  upon  the  pillow, 
10*  o 


226  Studies  for  Stories. 

—  the  child's  long  curls  were  spread  somewhat  forlornly 
across  her  forehead,  she  parted  them  with  her  soft  hand ; 
the  little  creature  was  in  a  most  heahng  slumber,  and  she 
said,  "  I  would  take  the  greatest  care  of  her,  Madame,  if 
you  would  take  some  rest.     Will  you  trust  me  ?  " 

Madame  could  not  make  up  her  mind  to  leave  the  room, 
but  she  dismissed  me  to  mine,  and  took  possession  of  the 
other  bed  in  the  nursery.  She  was  soon  asleep,  and  the 
door  being  left  ajar,  I  could  see  distinctly  the  little  child 
and  her  new  nurse,  and  I  wondered  what  it  was  that  had 
given  Miss  Black  such  ascendency.  I  do  not  think  any- 
thing more  transpired  than  what  I  have  narrated,  and  all 
her  art  seemed  to  have  consisted  in  first  surprising  and 
then  amusing. 

But  at  fifteen  one  does  not  reason. much,  nor  spend  the 
precious  midnight  hours  in  any  abstract  speculations.  I 
fell  asleep,  and  did  not  wake  till  we  were  called,  when  I 
found  the  door  shut  between  us,  and  was  not  told  anything 
about  the  child  till  after  breakfast,  when  Belle  waylaid  a 
maid-servant  as  she  came  down  stairs,  and  heard  from  her 
that  the  physician  had  already  paid  his  visit  ;  that  he 
thought  the  child  better,  though  extremely  weak,  and  had 
as  usual  requested  that  she  might  be  kept  as  cheerful  as 
possible. 

But  about  ten  minutes  before  the  first  school-bell  rang, 
Miss  Quain  desired  me  to  carry  Miss  Black's  exercise- 
book  and  some  ink  into  the  nursery,  as  Madame  had  given 
her  leave  to  write  her  exercise  there.  I  went  up  and  saw 
the  Httle  patient  lying  in  bed,  looking  decidedly  better,  and 
listening  to  a  story,  —  a  story,  namely,  concerning  a  young 
cock-sparrow,  of  rebellious  turn  of  mind,  who  would  insist 
upon  hopping  under  a  hand-glass,  which  a  gardener  had 
propped  up  with  a  piece  of  wood.  His  mother,  in  forcible 
and  affecting  language,  had  entreated  him  not  to  enter 
that  dangerous  place ;    but  this  deluded  bird,  when  she 


The  Stolen  Treasure.  227 

was  not  looking,  went  in.  The  gardener  came  and  shut 
tlie  glass,  and  the  sparrow  was  obhged  to  sit  inside,  peep- 
ing through  the  glass  and  flapping  his  wings,  with  nothing 
to  eat,  while  his  good,  obedient  brothers  and  sisters  had 
some  little  ants  and  some  juicy  caterpillars  for  their  dinner. 

This  story,  though  it  does  not  sound  probable,  nor  of 
very  absorbing  interest,  was  precisely  suited  to.  the  infantile 
listener,  who  remarked  concerning  the  sparrow,  that  if  he 
would  not  do  as  he  was  bid,  it  served  him  quite  right  to  be 
shut  in  there  ;  and  then,  while  I  was  assisting  Miss  Black 
with  her  toilette,  she  tried  to  make  further  acquaintance 
with  her  new  friend  by  asking  what  her  name  was. 

"  O,  I  have  such  a  long  name,"  said  Miss  Black,  "  that  I 
don't  think  such  a  little  girl  as  you  could  say  it ;  my  name 
is  Christiana  Frances." 

"  Say  it  again,"  asked  the  child. 

The  name  was  repeated,  and,  after  pondering  it  silently 
for  a  while,  the  child  said  distinctly,  in  her  sweet  treble 
voice,  '•'-  Miss  Christiana  Frances,  will  you  say  my  little 
name  now  ?     May  Merton  is  my  name." 

"  Little  May  Merton,  I  love  you  very  much,"  said  Miss 
Black. 

"  And  will  you  sleep  in  my  bed  to-night,  Miss  Christiana 
Frances  ?  "  pleaded  the  Httle  creature. 

"  O  yes,  if  you  are  good,"  repHed  Miss  Black,  who  well 
knew  that  Madame  would  be  too  happy  to  permit  it. 

"  I  am  good,"  said  the  child,  glancing  towards  an  empty 
medicine-glass  ;  "  and  you  said  you  would  tell  me  another 
story."  But  this  other  story,  my  readers,  I  regret  that  I 
cannot  lay  before  you,  though  it  was  doubtless  of  surpass- 
ing interest ;  for  the  bell  rang,  and  I  left  little  May  to  the 
companionship  of  her  benefactress. 

I  feel  that  I  have  passed  over  the  first  appearance  of 
Miss  Black  ^.mong  us,  as  if  it  had  been  a  matter  of  very 
small  importance. 


228  Studies  for  Stories. 

It  seemed  to  be  so  in  the  first  instance  ;  for,  though  she 
could  easily  make  her  way  among  children,  she  was  par- 
ticularly reserved  —  intentionally  reserved  —  among  us  ; 
but  as  she  is  to  play  a  somewhat  important  part  in  the 
little  scenes  which  I  am  about  to  describe,  I  will  try  to 
give  a  sketch  of  her  appearance  and  manner. 

She  was  rather  older  than  most  school-girls,  being  nearly 
seventeen  years  of  age.  She  had  only  come  into  the  house 
for  the  sake  of  learning  accomplishments,  and  was  treated 
more  hke  a  parlor  boarder  than  a  mere  pupil,  though  she 
slept  in  our  room,  and  took  her  music  and  German  lessons 
with  us.  Her  appearance  was  elegant  and  agreeable,  per- 
haps somewhat  pretty.  I  speak  of  her  as  I  saw  her  at 
first ;  for  afterwards  affection  clothed  her  deservedly  with 
many  charms.  She  was  very  womanly  in  manner  and 
character,  and  looked  quite  grown  up,  though  she  had 
a  slender,  girlish  figure.  The  hair  and  complexion  were 
extremely  fair ;  yet  she  had  black  eyebrows,  which  met, 
and  gave  her  sometimes,  when  she  was  deep  in  thought, 
a  severe  expression.  There  was  a  certain  self-possession 
and  calm  about  her  which  was  not  altogether  free  from 
pride,  and  which  made  us,  from  the  first,  fond  of  contrast- 
ing her  character  with  that  of  Caroline,  who  was  so  win- 
ning and  engaging,  and  who  could  refuse  a  kindness  in  a 
manner  more  flattering  than  the  simple  gravity  with  which 
Miss  Black  would  grant  it. 

Carohne  seemed  often  bent  on  pleasing  and  winning 
all  suffrages  for  herself.  Miss  Black  was  never  trying  to 
please,  though  she  was  often  trying  to  do  good.  More- 
over, she  was  deeply  affectionate.  It  seemed  to  be  as 
essential  to  her  happiness  to  find  people  on  whom  she 
could  lavish  her  care  and  attentive  love,  as  it  was  to  Caro- 
line to  excite  and  receive  the  affection  of  others. 

Carohne  was  clever,  Miss  Black  was  intellectual,  and  by 
far  the  most  gifted  pupil  that  Madame  had  ever  received  ; 


The  Stolen  Treasure.  229 

but  in  spite  of  the  difference  in  their  age,  she  was  not  equal 
to  Caroline  in  that  peculiar  tact,  and  that  superior  knowledge 
of  character,  by  which  this  singular  young  creature  ob- 
tained for  herself  so  much  power.  Caroline  always  chose 
the  most  acceptable  species  of  flattery  to  bestow  on  each 
schoolfellow  whom  she  wished  to  influence,  and  found  the 
readiest  way  to  their  hearts,  without  yielding  in  return  one- 
half  of  the  affection  that  she  received. 

"  O,  what  a  name  !  "  exclaimed  Carohne,  when  I  told  her 
Miss  Black's  Christian  name  ;  for  we,  school-girl  like,  had 
tried  to  find  it  out,  but  had  not  hitherto  succeeded. 

"  Christiana  reminds  me  of  the  Pilgrim's  Progress.  I 
shall  always  feel  inclined  to  address  her  in  antiquated 
fashion.  Prithee,  good  Christiana,  lend  me  thy  French 
Dictionary." 

"  But  Frances  is  a  pretty  name,"  I  observed  ;  "  and  she 
says  that  is  the  name  she  is  called  by." 

"  I  shall  always  call  her  by  both,"  said  Caroline  ;  "  Chris- 
tiana is  a  moral  name,  and  Frances  is  an  intellectual  name. 
She  is  a  perfect  mass  of  morahty  and  cleverness,  far  too 
much  so  for  my  taste,  — '  stuffed  with  honorable  parts,'  as 
that  old  gentleman  says." 

"  You  don't  mean  Shakespeare,"  I  exclaimed. 

"  I  mean  the  man  whose  scenes  and  things  we  read 
sometimes,  and  whose  picture  has  a  turn-down  collar,— 
yes,  Shakespeare,  to  be  sure  ;  I  thought  at  first  it  was  Chau- 
cer, but  now  I  remember  it  is  n't.  Well,  if  the  said  Chris- 
tiana Frances  likes  to  sit  up  in  the  nursery  with  May,  tell- 
ing stories  of  cock-robins,  instead  of  cultivating  the  ac- 
quaintance of  her  equals,  I  have  nothing  to  say  against  it, 
I  am  sure." 

"  No,"  I  remarked  ;  "  you  always  said,  that  as  far  as  you 
were  concerned,  any  one  might  patronize  May  who  was 
wiUinof." 


230       •  Studies  for  Stories. 


CHAPTER    IV, 


MISS     BLACK 


IN  looking  back  on  those  days  which  followed  the  ill- 
ness of*"little  May,  I  can  scarcely  recall  her  image 
without  that  of  Miss  Black ;  "  My  Miss  Christiana  Frances," 
as  May  always  called  her. 

Madame,  at  Miss  Black's  own  request,  permitted  her  to 
take  up  her  abode  in  the  nursery,  as  her  bedroom ;  and 
shortly  afterwards  my  bed  also  was  moved  there,  and  a 
friendship  gradually  grew  between  us,  which  enabled  me 
to  appreciate  and  love  her  character. 

Those  were  happy  days  for  May  and  me.  My  old 
friends,  with  the  exception  of  Bjelle,  had  all  left  The  Wil- 
lows ;  and  some  of  the  new-comers  often  made  me  ex- 
tremely uncomfortable,  by  quizzing  me,  and  laughing  at 
me,  if  ever  they  found  me  indulging  my  love  of  reading, 
or  secretly  studying  any  subject,  by  myself  Frances,  on 
the  contrary,  used  to  encourage  and  help  me  ;  and  when  I 
complained  of  the  teazing  I  endured,  she  used  to  sympa- 
thize with  me,  though  it  evidently  surprised  her  that  I 
should  care  for  it.  When  she  saw  me  hardly  beset  by 
Caroline  and  the  elder  girls,  she  would  sometimes  enter 
the  lists  with  me,  and  turn  the  tables  upon  my  tormentors  ; 
for  she  had  considerable  wit,  and  used  to  adopt  the  quaint 
language  which  CaroHne  had  sometimes  addressed  her  in, 
because  of  her  name,  and  use  it  much  more  drolly  than 
any  of  her  companions. 

About  this  time  four  of  the  girls,  myself  among  them, 
formed  a  club,  which  we  called,  "The  Mental  Improve- 


The  Stole7t   Treasure.  231 

ment  Club,"  —  a  childish  thing,  no  doubt,  but  well  meant. 
and  for  which  we  used  to  write  original  articles  in  prose 
and  poetry.  When  CaroHne  discovered  this  club,  she 
was  very  merciless  upon  us,  partly,  no  doubt,  pretty  dunce, 
because  she  could  not  write  well  enough  (as  we  were 
pleased  to  think)  to  be  worthy  of  a  place  in  it. 

The  club  sometimes  met  in  the  coach-house,  sometimes 
in  a  bedroom,  in  short,  anyw^here  that  seemed  to  offer  a 
safe  asylum  from  the  ridicule  of  those  who  were  not  mem- 
bers. But  I  am  bound,  as  a  faithful  historian,  to  say  that 
the  "  mental  improvers,"  as  Caroline  called  us,  were  so 
made  game  of,  and,  metaphorically  speaking,  so  hunted 
down  by  her,  that  they  were  on  the  point  of  dissolving, 
when  one  day  a  certain  picture  was  discovered  pinned  to 
the  head  of  CaroHne's  bed.  This  picture  was  duly  headed, 
in  old  EngHsh  letters,  "  Third  Meeting  of  the  Mental  Im- 
provers, with  Miss  C.  B.,  as  Aquarius,  pouring  cold  water 
on  the  concern."  In  the  centre  of  the  picture  were  four 
girls  huddled  together,  and  reading  from  a  paper.  The 
unknown  artist  had  expended  a  great  deal  of  trouble  in 
making  the  figures  extremely  sweet  and  pretty.  Standing 
over  them,  with  a  huge  watering-pot,  was  a  ludicrous  and 
hideous  caricature  of  Aquarius,  with  a  face  so  like  Caro- 
line's, that  it  was  impossible  to  mistake  it.  A  certain  air 
of  malice  was  imparted  to  the  features  of  Aquarius,  as  the 
streams  of  water  came  pouring  down,  which  by  no  means 
impaired  the  likeness. 

Poor  Caroline  was  deeply  disgusted  at  the  highly  un- 
flattering likeness  of  herself;  perhaps  she  was  still  more 
annoyed  at  the  beauty  of  the  four  girls  seated  on  the 
ground.  Their  dress  and  hair  were  represented  as  by  no 
means  disordered  by  the  shower  (for  artists  will  take  liber- 
ties with  nature  and  possibility) ;  on  the  contrary,  the 
general  air  of  Aquarius  reminded  one  of  the  most  dirty 
and  common-looking  of  little  maids-of-all-work.  Under- 
neath were  these  words  :  — 


232  '  Studies  for  Stories. 

"  C.  B.  returns  thanks  to  her  friends  and  the  public  for 
their  distinguished  patronage,  and  hopes,  *  by  unwearied 
efforts  to  merit  its  continuance.  .V.  B.  Shower-baths 
gratis  every  Wednesday  afternoon," 

Wednesday  afternoon  was  the  time  when  we  met.  We 
all  thought  in  our  inmost  hearts  that  there  was  but  one 
person  in  the  house  who  was  artist  enough  to  have  made 
this  really  clever  drawing.  No  one  said  who  she  thought 
it  was  ;  and  when  she  whom  we  suspected  knocked  at  the 
door  and  came  through  the  bedroom  of  the  second  class 
with  May  in  her  arms,  and  a  countenance  of  settled 
gravity,-  we  were  a  little  puzzled.  However,  we  never 
asked  for  any  explanation  ;  for  the  members  of  the  club 
would  have  felt  it  something  like  vanity,  to  take  for  granted 
that  those  lovely  young  creatures  on  the  ground  were 
meant  for  them ;  and  as  for  Caroline,  she  was  much  too 
politic  openly  to  betray  any  anger ;  that  would  have  been 
to  admit  that  she  acknowledged  the  likeness  and  the  char- 
acter. 

It  was  soon  evident  to  all  the  school  that  Caroline  con- 
sidered Miss  Black  in  the  light  of  a  rival,  though,  as  the 
latter  was  remarkably  independent,  and  scarcely  ever  in- 
terfered with  others,  there  was  for  a  long  time  very  little 
opportunity  for  showing  it. 

In  the  mean  time  little  May  got  quite  well,  and  grew 
plump  and  rosy,  though  she  was  still  so  extremely  small, 
that  the  girls  used  to  say  they  thought  all  her  growth  went 
into  her  hair ;  rather  an  unscientific  way,  perhaps,  of  ac- 
counting for  her  infantine  proportions.  Her  hair  was  of 
very  unusual  length  and  beauty,  and  I  well  remember  that 
when  we  used  to  pass  our  fingers  through  the  loose  curls 
and  straighten  them,  they  would  reach  to  the  hem  of  her 
frock. 

Pretty  little  May,  she  was  always  a  pet  amongst  us,  and 
so  light  that  it  required  no  great  strength  to  carry  her 


The  Stoleti  Treasure.  233 

about.  Frances  spent  many  an  honr  that  winter  in  carry- 
ing her  out  in  the  garden,  when  the  sun  shone.  Though 
cheerful  and  well  now,  she  was  very  tender,  and  easily 
fatigued  ;  but  endowed  with  a  spirit  and  a  will  strong 
enough  for  a  creature  five  times  her  size. 

Her  improvement,  under  the  care  of  Frances,  was  sur- 
prising, and  there  was  something  extremely  pretty  and  al- 
most touching,  in  the  confiding  way  in  wliich  she  gave  her 
whole  heart  to  her.  Her  devotion  was  fully  repaid,  for  we 
all  felt  that  Frances  loved  this  morsel  of  a  child  more  than 
all  the  rest  of  the  household  put  together.  She  was  cer- 
tainly an  engaging  and  desirable  little  plaything,  and  we 
all,  including  CaroHne,  liked  to  amuse  ourselves  with  her 
now  and  then,  when  she  was  well  and  good-tempered  ;  but 
we  always  gave  her  back  to  Frances  when  we  were  tired 
of  her,  as  the  person  to  whom  she  naturally  belonged,  and 
whose  duty  it  was  to  attend  to  her.  Her  kindness  to  May 
was  soon  looked  upon  even  by  Madame  as  a  kind  of  duty. 
Yet  I  must  do  her  th^justice  to  say  that  she  did  not  tire 
of  it.  All  the  trouble  she  took  in  teaching,  cherishing, 
dressing,  playing  with,  and  telling  stories  to  "  her  child," 
seemed  to  cost  her  very  little  effort.  She  was  systemati- 
cally good  to  little  May,  not  only  when  she  was  droll  and 
tractable,  but  when  she  was  naughty,  troublesome,  and 
cross,  as  all  children  are  at  times. 

Some  of  the  girls  used  to  wonder  how  Frances  could  be- 
stow so  much  trouble  on  the  child  :  I  never  did.  I  used 
to  think  of  a  speech  made  to  me  a  few  months  before,  by  a 
Httle  cousin  of  mine.  "  I  think,"  said  this  child,  with 
grave  contempt,  —  "I  think  I  shall  dig  a  hole  and  bury 
my  doll." 

"  Poor  thing  !  "  said  I,  "  what  has  she  done  ?  " 

"  Why,"  rephed  the  child,  in  a  sharp  tone  of  injured 
feehng,  "  she  's  no  use  at  all.  I  'm  always  saying,  '  How 
do  you  do  ?  '  to  her,  and  she,  —  she  never  says,  '  Very  well, 
thank  you.' " 


234  Studies  for  Stories. 

Now  little  May  was  a  doll  that  could  say,  "  Very  well, 
thank  you."     She  was  by  no  means  a  passive  plaything. 

If  Frances  left  the  door  open,  she  invariably  ran  out,  and 
had  to  be  brought  back  laughing  and  shrieking.  If  Frances 
left  her  ink  in  an  accessible  place,  May  would  dip  a  pen 
into  it ;  and  if  a  drawing  was  at  hand.  May  would  put  some 
finishing  touches  to  it ;  if  not,  she  would  wipe  the  pen  on 
her  pinafore.  If  she  saw  Frances  at  work,  she  would  seat 
herself  beside  her,  on  her  mora  (stool),  and  quietly  taking 
a  needle  and  a  long  thread  from  the  cushion,  would  lift  up 
some  small  article,  such  as  a  lace  collar  or  a  pinafore,  and 
begin  to  stitch  through  and  through  it,  drawing  up  the 
thread  till  the  whole  was  one  shapeless  mass  of  crum- 
ples and  tangles,  Hke  a  particularly  bad  ball ;  then  she 
would  proudly  hand  it  up  to  the  unconscious  Frances, 
exclaiming,  "  There,  I  've  mended  him^  I  want  another 
to  do." 

Frances  obtained  for  herself  the  privilege,  as  she  con- 
sidered it,  of  always  being  allowed  to  put  May  to  bed ;  and 
before  carrying  her  up  stairs,  she  used  to  take  off  her  shoes 
and  socks,  and  warm  the  child's  tiny  feet  in  her  hands  by 
the  school-room  fire.  O,  the  brushing  and  smoothing  that 
those  long,  silky  curls  required  ;  no  one  but  Frances  would 
have  found  any  pleasure  in  such  a  task ;  and  then,  when 
she  had  tucked  up  her  little  charge  and  kissed  her,  she 
always  told  her  a  story  out  of  the  Bible  before  she  went 
away.  It  was  astonishing  how  much  of  Scriptural  incident 
and  character  the  child  soon  acquired  in  this  way,  and  how 
many  hymns  and  texts  she  learned  almost  spontaneously. 
Indeed,  it  was  not  wonderful  that  Frances  should  have 
taught  her  best  that  in  which  she  took  the  deepest  interest, 
religion.  She  had  none  of  that  false  shame  which  pre- 
vents so  many  school-girls  from  daring  to  profess  any  in- 
terest in  this  most  important  of  all  subjects,  even  when 
they  feel  it  strongly,  and  are  unhappy  at  their  own  want  of 


The  Siolejt  Treasure.  235 

courage  which  leads  them  to  conceal  it.  The  girls  became 
aware  that  Frances  thought  a  good  deal  on  matters  that 
concerned  the  soul,  just  as  easily  and  quickly  as  they  did 
that  Frances  wished  to  be  a  good  German  scholar ;  for 
though  neither  fact  was  announced,  both  were  evident  to 
any  one  with  the  slightest  observation. 

Little  May  reaped  the  benefit  of  this  openness,  which 
had  a  most  salutary  effect  in  the  school,  and  the  more  so, 
as  it  was  not  inconsistent  with  that  natural  reserve  which 
Frances  seldom  laid  aside.  She  quietly  admitted  her  relig- 
ious impressions,  but  she  never  enlarged  upon  them. 

Many  a  delightful  evening  in  the  spring-time,  when  I 
have  entered  our  bedroom,  I  have  seen  little  May  lying  in 
her  pretty  bed,  and  Frances  reclining  beside  her,  with  her 
cheek  on  the  same  pillow,  telling  those  evening  stories  till 
the  child  gradually  closed  her  eyes  and  fell  asleep  in  the 
broad  daylight. 

May  had  been  at  school  about  eight  months,  when  one 
morning  Caroline  received  a  letter  by  the  Indian  mail  from 
Mrs.  Merton.  She  gave  a  message  to  little  May  from 
her  mamma,  but  it  amounted  to  Httle  more  than  her  best 
love,  and  that  of  the  child's  father.  Caroline,  however, 
read  the  letter  with  deep  interest  and  a  heightened  color, 
which  gave  us  the  impression  that  there  was  something 
more  than  usual  in  it.  School-time  was  at  hand,  so  we 
could  hear  nothing  about  it  then ;  but  we  did  not  doubt 
that  Caroline,  who  was  eminently  sociable  in  disposition, 
and  completely  unable  to  keep  a  secret,  would  tell  us  the 
contents  of  the  letter  when  she  had  an  opportunity. 

It  was  as  we  had  expected.  After  school,  Caroline  was 
walking  in  the  orchard,  conning  her  letter,  when  she  met 
litde  Nannette  coming  out  of  the  hop-garden  with  an  arm- 
ful of  cow-parsley  for  her  rabbits  ;  and  she  sent  her  to  us, 
to  ask  if  we  would  join  her.  There  were  six  of  us  togeth- 
er, and  we  forthwith  went  and  found  Caroline  under  a 


236  .      Studies  for  Stories. 

great  apple-tree,  seated  upon  the  moss,  reading  her  letter. 
The  tree  was  thick  with  pink  flowers,  the  sky  was  very- 
blue  above,  and  the  orchard  was  full  of  bees  that  had  come 
out  to  rifle  the  blossoms. 

The  day,  though  remarkably  clear  and  sunny,  was  some- 
what cold.  We  were  all  clad  in  the  large  shepherd's- 
plaid  shawls,  which  were  our  garden  wear  during  the  cold 
months ;  and  as  we  wished  to  hear  the  letter  comfortably, 
we  began  when  we  arrived  to  make  a  kind  of  tent  for  our- 
selves, taking  off  three  of  these  scarf-shawls,  and  tying 
one  end  of  each  to  a  long  hop-pole,  which  we  then  stuck 
into  the  ground,  making  the  whole  safe  and  warm  by  lay- 
ing stones  to  steady  the  ends  which  were  on  the  ground. 
Having  thus  erected  a  shelter  of  the  most  desirable  kind, 
with  its  back  to  the  wind,  its  opening  to  the  sun,  a  beau- 
tiful tree  overhead,  and  a  pretty  view  of  the  hop-plantation 
before  us,  we  collected  a  quantity  of  dry  leaves,  and  care- 
fully packed  ourselves  among  them  hke  birds  in  a  nest, 
covering  up  the  whole  community  with  the  other  four 
shawls.  Caroline  then  began  her  communication  in  these 
wd^ds  :  "  Sir  Aimias  Merton  is  dead." 

"  Dead  !  That  old  bachelor  dead,  of  whom  we  had 
heard  such  strange  things.  Who  lived  all  his  days  in  his 
own  lodge,  hoarding  his  money.  Who  made  his  house- 
keeper give  him  half  of  what  she  got  by  showing  the  house. 
Who  refused  his  young  brother  money  enough  to  buy  his 
commission ;  and  who  had  been  known  to  make  only  one 
present,  —  a  present  of  an  old  mourning-ring  to  the  said 
brother's  bride,  muttering  that  he  hoped  there  would  not 
be  a  large  family,  to  eat  him  out  of  house  and  home  !  " 

"Yes,"  Caroline  said,  "he  was  dead,  and  his  brother 
had  come  into  the  estate,  and  the  whole  of  his  princely 
fojtune.  Sir  Aimias  had  heard  that  hving-was  remarkably 
cheap  at  Smyrna,  and  he  had  actually  set  out  and  walked 
the  greater  part  of  the  way  to  that  somewhat  outlandish 


The  S  to  left   Treasw^e.     ^  237 

city,  and  no  doubt  done  the  remainder  of  the  journey  with 
due  regard  to  economy.  He  had  lived  there  very  comfort- 
ably, because  very  cheaply,  for  some  months,  till  he  was 
taken  ill  of  a  fever,  and  so  died." 

"  But  does  Mrs.  Merton  tell  you  all  this  ?  "  asked  one  of 
the  party. 

"  Not  exactly  in  the  words  I  have  used,  my  dear,"  said 
CaroHne,  laughing.  "  She  says  :  '  Our  brother  took  a  pe- 
destrian tour  across  Europe,  and  then  made  his  way  down 
to  Smyrna ; '  that  is  a  respectful  way  of  saying  that  he 
tramped^  as  the  policemen  called  it,  part  of  the  way,  and 
begged  perhaps  (who  knows  ?),  the  remainder." 

"  What  a  change  for  Mrs.  Merton  !  " 

"And  what  a  change  for  the  Baronet!  Mrs,  Merton 
says  they  are  both  coming  back  directly,  and  she  hopes 
they  shall  reach  England  by  the  beginning  of  the  midsum- 
mer holidays."     Here  Caroline  paused. 

"  And  they  will  go  to  live  in  that  beautiful  house,"  said 
one  of  us  ;  "  that  house  which  poor  Sir  Aimias  kept  in 
such  fine  order,  but  never  occupied  himself." 

"Yes,"  said  Caroline,  "and  Mrs.  Merton  says  she  shall 
have  May  and  me  to  spend  the  holidays  there  with  her." 

"May  and  me  !"  —  it  sounded  rather  odd;  I  thought, 
not  a  customary  combination. 

"  I  wonder  whether  they  will  let  May  return  to  school," 
remarked  Belle  I'Estrange. 

"  Not  likely,"  said  another ;  "  and  what  a  grief  that  will 
be  to  Frances  !  " 

"  O,  Frances  is  going  to  leave  soon  herself,"  interrupted 
Carohne,  hastily ;  "  she  will  only  stay  till  Christmas." 

"  Does  Mrs.  Merton  say  anything  about  inviting  Frances 
also  to  stay  with  her  ?  "  I  inquired. 

"  How  should  she,"  replied  Caroline,  incautiously,  "when 
she  never  heard  her  name  ?  " 

"  Never  heard  her  name  !  "  I  exclaimed  ;  "why,  I  thought 
you  wrote  often  to  Mrs.  Merton,  Caroline." 


238  .       Studies  for  Stories. 

Caroline  turned  her  head  till  her  bright  eyes  rested  upon 
me.  There  was  something  deliberate  in  the  action  ;  and 
she  conveyed  a  good  deal  of  tranquil  surprise  into  her  sur- 
vey, which  was  perhaps  intended  to  punish  me  for  my 
audacity  ;  and  certainly  abashed  me  greatly,  and  made  me 
blush  Lip  to  the  roots  of  my  hair,  and  feel  that  I  had  not  a 
word  to  say  for  myself. 

"  J  used  to  write  occasionally,  just  to  tell  Mrs.  Merton 
that  May  was  well,"  said  she,  speaking  slowly,  and  with  an 
air  of  distaste  and  languor.  "It  was  a  trouble,  of  course, 
but  I  did  it ;  sometimes  I  put  in  the  names  of  her  primers, 
and  the  pot-hooks  she  was  doing  ;  but  I  have  not  much 
time  for  writing,  and  no  talent  for  it,  as  you  mefital  im- 
Provets  have  ;  and  of  course  I  cannot  give  sketches  of 
scenes,  and  occupations,  and  characters  here,  as  Sophia 
can  ;  and  besides,  I  had  no  reason  to  think  they  would  be 
interesting  if  I  could." 

It  was  pretty  evident,  then,  that  Caroline,  in  writing  to 
Mrs.  Merton,  had  never  even  mentioned  the  name  of 
Frances  ;  and  though  we  were  always  inclined  to  take 
the  very  best  view  we  possibly  could  of  everything  that 
Caroline  did,  there  was  an  awkward  silence  now,  which 
Belle  at  length  broke,  by  charitably  remarking,  "  Of  course, 
Carry,  dear,  you  could  not  have  known  how  soon  Mrs.  Mer- 
ton was  coming  home." 

Caroline  gladly  caught  at  this  straw,  and  cleverly  turned 
it  to  her  advantage. 

"  Of  course  not,"  she  said  gaily,  and  with  her  own  fasci- 
nating smile  ;  "but  Sophia  seems  to  expect  people  to  have 
prescience.  Ah !  my  little  presidentess  of  the  '  mental 
improvers,'  you  show  a  marvellous  partisanship ;  you  are 
quite  in  the  interest  of  the  female  pilgrim.  You  think  I 
ought  to  have  given  the  exact  pedigree  and  description  of 
Frances,  in  person,  mind,  and  manners,  just  as  I  should 
have  done,  if  I  had  known  that  she  was  so  soon  to  meet 
Mrs.  Merton." 


The  Stolen   Treasure.  239 

She  looked  under  my  hat  as  she  said  it,  and  I  do  not 
know  how  it  was,  but  I  certainly  felt  as  if  I  had  done 
something  foolish  ;  and  when  she  laughed  and  kissed  me, 
I  was  so  much  ashamed  that  I  could  not  help  turning  away 
my  face. 

I  turned  it  towards  the  entrance  of  our  little  tent,  and 
there  I  saw  in  the  distance  Frances  walking  between  the 
hop-poles,  carrying  little  May.  She  also  was  enveloped 
in  her  scarf  of  shepherd's  plaid,  and  she  had  wound  it  gyp- 
sy-like about  herself  and  the  child,  so  that  only  the  merry 
little  face  peeped  out  over  her  shoulder,  for  she  was  carrying 
her  pickapack ;  and  I  shall  not  soon  forget  how  pretty  they 
looked  as  they  came  towards  us,  through  the  lengthening, 
perspective  of  the  hop-poles. 

May  had  the  sweetest  little  voice  possible  ;  Frances  had 
taught  her  to  sing  several  simple  songs,  and  used  to  sing 
second  to  her ;  now  her  high  childish  notes,  so  clear  and 
pretty,  sounded  like  fairy  bells  in  the  air,  while  the  deep 
tones  of  Frances's  contralto  voice,  though  fine,  were  not  so 
audible  at  that  distance. 

" Pretty  little  May,"  said  Caroline,  in  a  regretful  tone; 
"  how  seldom  one  has  an  opportunity  of  getting  her  to  play 
with  !  I  think  Frances  really  does  usurp  her  rather  too 
much." 

I  cannot  describe  how  much  this  speech  grated  upon  my 
feehngs.  Frances  had  never  refused  to  give  up  the  child 
when  any  of  the  girls  had  wished  to  play  with  her  ;  but  sel- 
dom had  Caroline  wished  for  her,  for  she  was  not  naturally 
fond  of  children. 

"  I  could  not  think  where  you  all  were,"  exclaimed  Fran- 
ces, stopping  before  the  opening  of  our  tent. 

"  No,"  said  May,  repeating  her  words ;  "  we  could  not 
titik  where  you  all  were." 

"  Comical  little  parrot,"  said  Caroline ;  "just  put  her 
down,  Frances,  and  let  her  come  in  here." 


240  Studies  for  Stories. 

"  Yes  ;  I  want  to  get  into  that  funny  little  house,"  said 
May.  Accordingly  Frances  began  to  unwind  herself  and 
the  child,  and  finally  set  her  down  in  the  very  midst  of  us, 
all  warm  and  rosy  after  her  ride. 

"  Take  care  of  her,'i  said  Frances,  addressing  us  gener- 
ally, "  and  mind  she  does  not  get  her  feet  damp  in  coming 
home." 

"  ril  carry  her  in,"  said  Carohne. 

"  Very  well,  if  you  will  undertake  her,  I  shall  go,"  re- 
marked Frances ;  "  for  I  am  rather  behindhand  with  my 
German.'* 

So  Frances  nodded,  and  went  her  way';  little  May  was 
left  with  us,  and  very  droll  and  amusing  she  was,  till  she 
began  to  grow  tired  of  the  tent,  and  then  she  said  she 
wanted  to  go  in,  —  she  wanted  to  find  her  Miss  Christiana 
Frances. 

"  What  do  you  want  with  her  ?  "  said  Caroline  ;  "  look 
at  me,  —  am  not  I  quite  as  pretty  as  Frances  ? " 

May  laughed  scornfully,  as  if  quite  amused  at  the  no- 
tion that  any  one  could  be  so  pretty  as  Frances.  "  No," 
she  said,  "  you  're  not  Mtf  such  a  pretty  lady.  I  want 
to  go." 

Though  she  was  a  mere  baby,  Caroline  was  evidently 
annoyed  at  this  uncomplimentary  speech. 

"  I  hope  a  certain  individual  does  not  try  to  set  this  little 
thing  against  me,"  she  said,  in  a  doubtful  tone. 

"  The  idea  !  "  I  exclaimed,  almost  as  scornfully  as  little 
May  had  done  ;  "  how  can  you  lend  your  mind  to  such  a 
wild  fancy,  Caroline  ?  Why  should  she  try  to  set  her 
against  any  one  ;  she  is  quite  above  it ;  and  besides,  the 
child  of  course  prefers  her  so  infinitely  to  any  of  us,  that 
I  am  sure  she  never  has  the  slightest  cause  for  any  feeling 
of  jealousy." 

"  You  are  warm,  my  little  Sophia,"  said  Carohne  ;  but 
this  time  I  did  not  feel  ashamed.  * 


The  Stolen  Treasure.         '  241 

"  Besides,  Caroline,"  observed  one  of  our  schoolfellows, 
who  was  by  no  means  aware  of  the  dangerous  ground  she 
was  treading  on,  "  why,  above  all  people,  should  she  try 
to  set  her  ^-gainst  you,  —  you,  who  never  interfere  with  her 
by  any  chance,  never  want  to  have  the  child,  and  scarcely 
ever  take  any  notice  of  her  ?  " 

"  Pooh  !  "  said  CaroHne,  impatiently. 

"  I  want  to  go,"  repeated  May,  who  was  now  patting 
Caroline's  cheek,  by  way  of  attracting  her  attention. 

"  What  for  ?  " 

"  I  want  my  Miss  Christiana  Frances  ;  and  she  said  she 
would  open  the  drawer  to-day,  and  let  me  look  in  it." 

"  What  drawer  ?  "  inquired  Caroline. 

Upon  this  T  explained  that  May  had  often  asked  to  see 
her  ayah's  gowns,  bangles,  etc,  but  that  Madame  had  not 
permitted  this  hitherto  ;  now  her  leave  had  been  obtained, 
and  Frances  was  going  to  show  them  to  her. 

"  Oh,"  said  Caroline,  whose  natural  disinclination  to 
trouble  herself  with  children  was  still  strong  within  her, 
though  she  evidently  wished  just  now,"  for  obvious  rea- 
sons, to  stand  well  with  little  May.  "  Well,  I  suppose  I 
must  take  this  child  in,  as  I  promised ;  "  and  she  rose 
half  reluctantly,  saying,  with  a  half-smile,  "  What  little 
plagues  children  are  !  " 

"  And  so  is  ladies  great  plagues,"  exclaimed  May ;  and 
then,  delighted  with  her  repartee,  she  repeated  it  with  fits 
of  baby  laughter  ;vftnd  was  carried  off  by  CaroUne,  vocifer- 
ating that  ladies  were  great  plagues. 

I  do  not  know  that  she  was  more  droll  and  shrewd  than 
many  children  of  her  age,  but  as  she  certainly  was  not 
much  more  than  half  their  size,  she  seemed  incomparably 
more  so  ;  and  to  hear  such  a  little  atom  bandy  jokes  with 
us,  as  she  often  did,  was  one  of  the  most  comical  things 
possible. 


242  •  StiLdies  for  Stories. 


CHAPTER    V. 

Caroline's  wilfulness. 

SO  little  May  was  carried  oif  by  Caroline,  and  we 
stayed  awhile  longer  in  our  tent,  the  day  being  a  half- 
holiday.  I  remember  that  we  discussed  the  motives  and 
conduct  of  Caroline  in  having  avoided  the  mention  of 
Frances  as  a  friend  to  May,  in  writing  to  the  child's  moth- 
er ;  and  that  most  of  us  excused  her,  or  attempted  to  show 
that  it  was  purely  accidental  this  silence.  After  a  while  we 
dispersed,  the  others  to  their  birds  in  the  coach-house, 
and  I  to  my  room,  still  called  the  nursery ;  on  entering  I 
found  Caroline  and  Httle  May  there,  and  to  my  surprise 
saw  that  the  chest  of  drawers,  which  contained  the  ayah's 
possessions,  had  been  opened,  and  that  the  contents  were 
some  of  them  scattered  on  the  chairs,  the  floor,  and  the 
beds.  May,  with  a  wistful  expression,  which  I  had  not 
seen  on  her  face  for  a  long  time,  was  gazing  earnestly  into 
an  open  drawer,  and  Caroline  was  curiously  examining 
the  diiferent  articles. 

"  How  did  you  get  these  drawers  opened  ?  "  I  exclaimed. 

"O,  they  are  quite  common  locks," *»aid  Caroline.  "I 
took  a  key  from  one  of  the  drawers  of  the  other  chest  and 
put  it  in,  and  it  opened  without  any  difficulty." 

"  But  will  Frances  like  your  showing  the  things  while 
she  is  away  ?  "  I  inquired.  "  I  know  that  Madame  gave 
her  the  key,  with  many  directions  about  showing  the  things 
very  cautiously,  for  fear  of  exciting  the  child." 

Caroline  looked  a  Httle  alarmed,  but  answered,  "  Then  if 
Frances  expects  to  be  present  when  they  are  shown,  she 


The  Siole7i  Treasure.  243 

should  not  keep  the  poor  child  waiting  so  long.  Madame 
gave  her  the  key  as  soon  as  morning  lessons  were  over, 
and  she  has  left  the  child,  and  does  not  come  to  open  the 
drawers ;  so  as  the  little  creature  said  she  wished  to  see 
them  ^  I  —  I  undertook  to  show  them  to  her." 

I  replied  that  Frances  was  in  the  school-room,  doing  a 
German  exercise,  and  probably  did  not  know  that  May 
was  come  in ;  and  I  wondered  that  Caroline  should  not 
have  called  Frances,  rather  than  have  at  once  obeyed  the 
caprice  of  the  child,  who  was,  I  observed,  though  saying 
nothing,  in  the  highest  state  of  excitement,  the  very  state 
that  Madame  was  solicitous  by  all  possible  means  to  avoid. 

"  I  cannot  get  these  things  over  my  hands,"  said  Caro- 
line, who  had  taken  up  the  silver  bangles  that  the  ayah  had 
worn ;  what  small  hands  and  wrists  that  woman  must  have 
had ! " 

I  drew  near  and  looked  at  the  white  muslin  banyans,  or 
jackets,  the  wide  paunjammahs,  which  form  part  of  the 
dress  of  her  order,  and  are  sometimes  made,  as  they  were 
in  this  instance,  of  rich  Benares  silk,  the  curious  tortoise- 
shell  combs,  which  she  had  worn  in  her  hair,  and  the  long 
scarfs  or  veils  of  muslin  which  she  used  to  throw  over  her 
head  and  shoulders.  I  saw  also  the  Soam  pebbles,  the 
small  silver  paun-box  that  she  had  used  ;  for  she  was  very, 
very  fond  of  chewing  paun,  tlie  rosare,  or  fringed  cotton 
quilt,  on  which  she  had  sat  while  engaged  in  shampooing 
her  little  beebee,  a  purse  full  of  rupees,  many  strings  of 
cowries,  a  small  six-sided  box,  made  of  straw,  and  orna- 
mented at  the  top  with  a  representation  of  the  cheel,  or 
Brahminee  kite,  beautifully  wrought  on  it,  also  in  straw ; 
this  box  was  filled  with  strange  Httle  pieces  of  metal,  of 
various  shapes  and  sizes,  and  I  supposed  them  to  be 
charms. 

Besides  all  these  things,  and  many  more  which  I  have 
forgotten,  there  were  lying  on  the  beds  some  beautiful  jin- 


244  Studies  for  Stories. 

dilly  muslins,  gauzes,  pieces  of  striped  Benares  silk,  small 
Indian  scarfs,  grass  handkerchiefs,  Delhi  shawls,  pieces 
of  kinquab  (a  superb  kind  of  Indian  silk),  a  Trichinopoly 
chain,  a  Bombay  work-box,  chains,  bracelets,  agates,  and 
gold  and  coral  ornaments,  which  had  doubtless  been  given 
into  the  care  of  the  faithful  ayah,  for  the  child's  use  as  she 
grew  older. 

I  know  not  what  visions  of  infancy,  or  what  distinct  rec- 
ollections of  the  dead  ayah  and  her  distant  parents,  the 
sight  of  these  things  may  have  awakened  in  the  breast  of 
little  May,  but  she  continued  to  gaze  at  them  like  one  fas- 
cinated, till  Carohne  happened  to  say,  "What  a  curious 
smell  there  is  about  everything  that  comes  from  the  East ! 
it  is  not  sandal-wood.     What  is  it  ?  " 

"I  do  not  know,"  I  rephed ;  "but  I  noticed  it  about  all 
May's  clothes  at  first,  and  the  ayah  seemed  always  to  waft 
it  as  she  walked.     It  must  be  some  kind  of  spice." 

Caroline  had  put  on  a  Benares  silk  slip  of  widely  striped 
silk,  she  had  drawn  round  her  one  of  the  Indian  shawls,  — 
it  looked  very  well  on  her  slender  form,  —  and  she  was  just 
completing  her  costume,  by  fastening  a  muslin  veil  on  her 
head,  when  the  child,  attracted  by  our  voices,  turned  round, 
and  starting  at  the  sight  of  her,  laughed  at  first,  and  held 
6ut  her  arms,  but  in  another  moment  she  was  evidently 
frightened,  and  began  to  scream  most  violently. 

Carohne,  who  did  not  know  how  thoroughly  the  child 
was  excited,  hoped  to  quiet  her  with  a  few  kisses,  and 
when  these  failed,  she  first  scolded,  then  entreated,  but  all 
to  no  purpose  ;  then  being  afraid  of  being  seen  by  Madame, 
whose  approval  of  what  she  had  done  was  doubtful,  she 
ran  to  the  drawers,  flung  them  open,  and  began  to  throw 
in  the  costly  articles  which  she  had  so  unceremoniously 
taken  from  their  concealment ;  but  her  purpose  was  not 
wholly  accomph shed  when  Frances,  attracted  by  the  screams 
of  her  nursHng,  flew  into  the  room,  and  breathlessly  de- 
manded to  know  what  was  the  matter. 


The  Stolen  Treastcre.  245 

Caroline,  discovered  dressed  in  this  strange  costume,  in 
another  person's  room,  and  proving  herself  so  unfit  for 
the  office  she  had  taken  upon  herself,  was  so  angry,  and  so 
ashamed  of  her  ridiculous  position,  that  she  would  not  say 
a  word,  and  I  was  obliged  to  explain  the  matter  as  well  as 
I  could  in  the  interval  of  litde  May's  piercing  screams. 

"  I  did  not  know  you  had  brought  May  in,"  said  Frances, 
rather  coldly,  and  at  the  same  time  drawing  the  key  from 
her  pocket.  Caroline  neither  looked  at  her  nor  made  any 
answer.  "  I  was  perfectly  ready  to  show  these  drawers  to 
her,"  she  continued  ;  and  then  added  firmly,  "  May,  if  you 
are  not  quiet  I  shall  be  exceedingly  angry." 

"  Poor  Uttle  thing  !  "  exclaimed  Caroline,  indignantly ; 
"  how  can  you  speak  so  crossly  to  her  ?  —  don't  you  see 
that- she  cannot  help  sobbing?  she  has  no  power  to  pre- 
vent it." 

"  Yes,  she  has,"  said  Frances,  addressing  herself  more 
to  the  child  than  to  Caroline,  and  speaking  steadily,  but 
not  unkindly.  "  May  can  stop,  and  she  must ;  she  will  be 
extremely  ill  if  she  goes  on  screaming  in  this  way.  May, 
do  you  hear  me  ?  " 

The  child,  awed  by  the  unusual  manner  and  expression 
of  Frances,  tried  to  do  as  she  was  bid,  and  would  no  doubt 
have  succeeded,  being  assisted  by  her  surprise,  if  Caroline 
had  not  murmured  some  excuses,  remarking,  most  inju- 
diciously, "  She  may  stop  for  a  moment,  but  she  is  sure  to 
begin  again.     I  know  she  will." 

Of  course,  upon  this  the  child  did  begin  again  ;  and 
Frances  instantly  took  her  up,  carried  her  out  of  the 
room,  and  shut  the  door  behind  her. 

There  was  both  indignation  and  dignity  in  her  manner 
as  she  did  this  ;  and  if  Caroline  felt  herself  reproved,  it 
was  probably  no  more  than  Frances  intended. 

"  Insolence  !  "  exclaimed  Caroline,  "  insolence  !  What 
right  has  she  to  assume  those  miserable  airs  of  superiority 


246  Studies  for  Stories. 

over  me,  carrying  off  May  as  if  my  presence  was  improper 
for  her,  and  treating  me  like  an  ignorant  child  ?  Inso- 
lence !  —  but  I  will  have  her  yet ;  I  '11  have  her  back 
again,  even  if  I  have  to  appeal  to  Madame.  Frances, 
indeed  ;  what  is  she  that  she  is  to  thwart  me,  and  get  the 
upper  hand  in  everything  ?  I  will  enter  the  lists  with  her, 
and  we  shall  soon  see  who  will  win.  May  shall  be  my 
child  again  before  she  is  a  fortnight  older."  And,  to  my 
great  surprise,  she  burst  into  a  passion  of  tears,  and  hur- 
ried to  little  May's  bed,  laying  her  head  down  on  the 
pillow,  sobbing,  and  covering  her  beautiful  eyes  with  the 
ayah's  muslin  veil. 

I  did  not  at  all  suppose  that  she  was  serious  when  she 
spoke  of  appealing  to  Madame,  and  of  having  the  little 
May  back  again  ;  for  she  was  too  indolent,  I  thought,  to 
desire  seriously  a  charge  that  was  sure  to  be  so  trouble- 
some. I  therefore  looked  on  her  speech  as  an  outbreak 
of  mingled  indignation,  mortification,  and  passion.  And 
when  she  threw  herself  on  the  bed,  I  could  not  help  feel- 
ing amused  ;  for  I  thought  it  childish  in  her  to  have  a  fit 
of  crying,  and  show  her  temper  so  openly,  because  she 
had  been  vexed.  Most  of  the  girls,  I  thought,  would  have 
been  too  proud  for  such  an  exhibition  ;  and  I  looked  on 
very  composedly,  wondering  what  would  be  done  next, 
till  presently  the  pretty  way  in  which  she  bemoaned  her- 
self—  wishing  she  had  never  come  to  this  place,  this  sor- 
rowful place,  where  it  was  never  really  warm,  and  where 
the  people  were  as  cold  as  the  weather,  —  where  no  one 
understood  her,  and  no  one  really  loved  her,  —  declaring 
that  she  was  the  most  unhappy  person  possible,  and  that 
no  half-holiday  had  ever  before  been  so  sorrowful  —  worked 
on  my  feelings  to  such  a  degree,  that,  before  I  knew  what 
I  was  about,  I  was  at  her  side,  begging  her  to  be  com- 
forted, and  was  caressing  her,  quite  forgetting  whether  she 
was  right  or  wrong,  and  was  lifting  up  her  face,  and  en- 
treating her  to  be  comforted. 


The  Stolen  Treasure.  247 

"You  used  to  love  me  before  Frances  came,"  sobbed 
Caroline  ;  "  but  now,  —  now  you  always  take  part  with 
her." 

I  was  so  completely  beguiled,  that  I  thought  of  nothing 
but  how  to  comfort  her,  and  only  answered  that  I  loved 
both  very  much,  and  hoped  she  would  forget  this  little 
scene,  and  be  friendly  towards  Frances. 

Caroline  laid  her  head  on  my  bosom,  and,  after  a  great 
deal  more  comforting,  caressing,  and  petting,  was  induced 
to  rise,  dry  her  eyes,  and  smile  again.  She  stood  up,  and 
with  my  help  divested  herself  of  the  rich  silken  petticoat, 
the  Indian  shawl,  and  the  ayah's  veil,  which  she  had  fast- 
ened on  with  some  long  silver  pins,  probably  intended  for 
that  purpose.  Then  she  walked  to  the  glass  to  arrange 
her  hair,  still  looking  very  pensive  ;  but  her  first  remark, 
on  seeing  herself  therein  reflected,  struck  me  as  so  very 
irrelevant,  and  so  completely  beneath  the  dignity  of  such 
a  heroine  in  distress  as  she  had  just  been  enacting,  that  I 
could  not  help  bursting  into  a  sudden  laugh. 

"  Well,  I  don't  look  much  worse  for  my  crying  fit,"  was 
the  remark  in  question ;  "  but  if  I  were  Frances,  I  would 
never  cry  at  all,  —  it  really  swells  up  her  eyeUds,  and 
makes  her  nose  so  red,  that  she  looks  quite  ugly  after  it 
What  can  you  be  laughing  at,  Sophia  ?  " 

"  I  cannot  help  it." 

"You  are  not  laughing  at  me,  surely.''  —  you  are,  I  be- 
lieve !  What  is  the  reason  ?  —  tell  me,  this  instant,  you 
little  quiz." 

"  Because  as  people  are  not  supposed  to  cry  if  they  can 
help  it,  or  unless  they  are  really  in  sorrow,  it  seemed  so 
droll  to  suppose  that  they  consider  whether  it  will  be  un- 
becoming or  not,  and  act  accordingly." 

"  Ah  !  one  ought  to  be  more  cautious  what  one  says  to 
you,  presidentess ;  such  a  straightforward,  simple  person 
as  myself  cannot  get  on  with  you  at  all ;  you  are  always 


248       '  Studies  for  Stories. 

weighing-  and  criticising.  This  glass  hangs  in  a  very  bad 
light ! " 

"  Caroline,  I  want  to  say  something  to  you." 

"  Well,  say  it,  then." 

"  You  think  I  observe  my  friends  too  closely.  I  must 
tell  you  something  that  I  have  observed  about  you." 

"  If  it  is  an  agreeable  thing,  you  may." 

"  But  it  is  not  an  agreeable  thing  altogether,  yet  as  it 
concerns  me  as  well  as  yourself,  I  must  tell  you,  because 
not  telling  it  sometimes  makes  me  feel  as  if  I  were  de.- 
ceitful." 

"  Does  it  make  you  feel  as  if  you  were  blushing  violent- 
ly?—  because  you  are." 

"  Well,  I  do  not  care  ;  I  shall  tell  you  notwithstanding." 

"  I  agree  with  you  that  you  are  deceitful,  presidentess  ; 
for  you  say  you  don't  care,  and  you  do.  You  sha'n't  tell 
me."  So  saying,  Caroline  walked  up  to  me,  and  laying 
her  hands  on  my  shoulders,  looked  into  my  eyes  and 
laughed,  repeating,  "  You  shall  not  tell  me  ;  I  dare  you 
to  it." 

"  You  have  a  habit,"  I  began  ;  but  Caroline  quickly 
stopped  my  mouth  by  clapping  her  hand  upon  it,  exclaim- 
ing, "  O,  you  tiresome  girl,  I  cannot  bear  your  scruples, 
and  your  principles,  and  your  things  ;  you  must  have 
caught  them  of  Frances  ;  you  were  such  a  charming  little 
creature  before  she  came." 

She  would  not  remove  her  hand  till  I  cease.d  to  make 
attempts  at  speaking,  and  then  she  pathetically  begged  me 
to  help  her  in  putting  away  the  Indian  articles,  which  I 
accordingly  began  to  do,  and  they  supplied  us  with  con- 
versation till  the  last  shawl  was  folded,  and  the  last  jewel 
carefully  put  away.  Then  Caroline  sat  down  on  the  side 
of  the  bed  with  an  air  of  the  deepest  consideration,  and 
said  to  me,  "  After  all,  presidentess,  I  think  I  have  a  curi- 
osity to  hear  what  you  meant  to  tell  me." 


The  Stolen  Treasure.  249 

"  Perhaps  it  was  that  you  are,  in  my  opinion,  a  very 
capricious  creature." 

"  Perhaps  it  was  no  such  thing  ;  come,  tell  me,  for  I  like 
you  to  talk  confidentially  to  me,  as  you  used  to  do  before 
that  Frances  came.  I  think  there  is  no  one  in  the  house 
that  I  feel  so  fond  of  as  I  do  of  you." 

"  O,  but  you  said  that  to  Belle  yesterday,  that  very  same 
thing ;  for  she  repeated  it  to  me  in  great  triumph." 

Caroline  laughed,  and  answered,  not  a  whit  abashed  : 
"  Well,  I  dare  say  I  felt  very  fond  of  her  when  I  said  it ; 
but  now  I  want  to  hear  this  ;  tell  me,  only  mind  it  is  not  to 
be  an3^thing  disagreeable." 

"  In  that  case,  I  am  to  invent  something  to  tell  you,  I 
suppose  ;  for  I  told  you  what  I  did  mean  to  say  was  dis- 
agreeable." 

"  It  really  is  very  provoking  of  you  to  tease  me  in  this 
way,"  said  Caroline,  earnestly,  "  when  you  know  that  I 
never  can  sleep  at  night  if  anything  puzzles  me." 

I  saw  she  was  determined  to  be  told,  but  my  courage 
failed  me  ;  for  I  felt  more  strongly  than  I  had  ever  done 
before  that  Caroline  would  never  forgive  me  if  I  really  let 
her  see  what  grave  faults  I  had  perceived  in  her  character  ; 
strange  to  say,  I  also  felt  more  than  ever  those  nameless 
attractions  which  had  drawn  me  to  her  from  the  first. 

"  Come,  begin,"  she  exclaimed,  drawing  me  towards  her, 
and  making  me  sit  by  her  on  the  little  bed.  "  I  know  it  is 
something  agreeable  after  all ;  and  if  it  is  not,  I  shall  be  in 
such  a  passion." 

She  spoke  in  joke,  but  did  not  think  how  soon  it  would 
be  true  in  earnest. 

"  I  did  not  like  to  tell  you,"  I-  began,  "because  we  have 
been  so  affectionate  and  friendly  just  now ;  it  was  only 
this,  that  you  have  a  habit  of  making  out,  at  least  you  seem 
to  take  for  granted,  whenever  we  show  you  how  much  we 
love  you  —  you  have  a  habit,  you — " 
II* 


250  Studies  for  Stories. 

"Well,  come  to  the  point,"  said  Caroline,  laughing, 
"  and  don't  blush." 

"  Why,  you  seem  to  take  for  granted,"  I  exclaimed,  with 
a  mighty  effort,  "  that  if  people  love  others,  they  must  needs 
think  them  perfect ;  you  think  when  we  are  affectionate,  at 
least  when  I  am,  that  I  entirely  approve  of  what  you  may 
have  been  doing,  —  that  I  think  you  quite  in  the  right." 

"  If  you  do  love  me,  you  must  think  me  right,"  said  Car- 
oline. You  must  take  my  part  in  your  mind.  No  one  can 
love  me,  and  yet  see  faults  in  me." 

"  Do  you  see  no  faults  in  7ne  ?  "  I  ventured  to  inquire. 

"  O  yes  !  "  was  the  frank  rejoinder,  "  but  then  thafs  dif- 
ferent.    I  see  faults  sometimes,  no  doubt." 

"  But  I,  loving  you  more  than  you  love  me,  ought  not  to 
see  any  in  you  ;  is  that  it .'' "  I  asked. 

Caroline  laughed  again ;  but  I  had,  perhaps,  come  so 
near  to  what  she  had  meant,  when  she  made  that  incau- 
tious speech,  that  she  felt  embarrassed,  and  only  repeated 
that  she  had  always  been  accustomed  to  have  people  like 
her,  and  not  see  her  faults ;  and  she  was  sure  if  I  loved 
her  I  could  not  see  them. 

."  But,"  I  said,  "  I  beg  your  pardon,  I  often  see  them,  and 
yet  sometimes  for  want  of  courage,  and  sometimes  because 
you  appear  to  expect  it,  and  often  remark  that  a  friend  is 
always  short-sighted  to  defects,  —  I  have  let  you  think  I 
considered  you  quite  right  when  I  have  blamed  you  in  my 
heart ;  .and  you  are  often  so  affectionate  to  me  that  I  am 
sure  you  do  not  know  what  I  sometimes  think." 

"  If  I  understand  you  aright,"  said  Caroline,  "  I  suppose 
this  is  your  way  of  telling  me  that  you  do  not  care  for  me 
as  much  as  you  have  often  pretended  to  do." 

"  If  you  think  so,"  I  replied,  "  you  do  not  understand  me 
at  all." 

It  was  one  of  Caroline's  peculiarities  to  be  remarkably 
sensitive  to  blame ;  she  could  not  bear  to  be  found  fault 


The  Stolen   Treasure.  25 1 

with  in  the  most  trivial  matter.  She  now  looked  surprised, 
and  even  colored,  —  a  thing  that  rarely  occurred  with  her. 
"  I  don't  know  what  you  mean,"  she  said,  "  unless  you  give 
me  an  instance." 

I  answered,  in  some  trepidation,  "  I  thought  it  wrong  in 
you  to  express  a  determination  to  get  May  away  from 
Frances,  yet  I  tried  to  comfort  you  when  you  were  so 
vexed,  and  you  thought,  I  believe,  that  I  approved." 

Caroline  had  pushed  me  sHghtly  from  her,  and  withdrew 
her  arm  as  I  began  to  speak  ;  and  the  moment  I  was  done, 
—  "  Express  a  determination  !  "  she  repeated,  passionately. 
"Yes,  I  do  express  a  determination;  I  will  strive  with 
Frances,  by  all  means,  open  and  underhand  ;  she  shall  not 
treat  me  as  she  has  done  for  nothing.  May  I  will  have. 
Frances  may  do  without  her  as  well  as  she  can." 

The  point  in  discussion  was  already  lost  sight  of  between 
us,  and  the  old  grievance  recurred  to.  "  Then  you  will  be 
very  wrong,  and  very  unkind,"  I  exclaimed,  in  great  heat. 
"  You  will  be  more  than  unkind,  you  will  be  wicked." 

"  Wicked  ! "  cried  Caroline,  starting  up  with  sparkling 
eyes.  "  What  do  you  dare  to  say  ?  What  do  you  mean  ? 
How  unkind  ?     How  wicked  ?  " 

"  It  would  be  wicked,"  I  repeated,  "because  it  would  be 
stealing.''''     I  sajd  this  word  in  a  very  low  tone. 

Caroline  caught  it  up  sarcastically,  and  repeated  it  with 
a  bitter  laugh.  "  Stealing  !  as  if  that  tiresome,  plain,  unin- 
teresting child  was  worth  stealing." 

"  The  more  unkind,  then,"  I  exclaimed,  "  if  you  think  so, 
to  steal  her  from  Frances,  to  whom  she  is  so  lovely,  so  in- 
teresting, and  so  precious.  I  say  it  will  be  stealing,  and 
if  you  do  it  intentionally,  as  you  say  you  mean  to  do,  it 
will  be  quite  as  wicked,  and  quite  as  mean,  as  it  would  be 
to  steal  one  of  those  Indian  shawls,  or  to  steal  May's  dia- 
mond locket  that  her  papa  left  for  her." 

"  Insolent  girl !      Insolent  creature  !  "    cried  Caroline, 


252  Studies  for  Stories. 

drawing  herself  up  to  her  full  height,  and  looking  down 
on  me  as  I  sat  nervously  on  the  side  of  the  bed.  "  And 
so,  I  suppose,  —  indeed,  I  can  have  no  doubt,"  she  added, 
with  ineffable  scorn,  "  that  this  conversation,  — ■  this  pleasing 
and  affectionate  conversation,  will  be  repeated  to  Frances, 
—  Frances,  whom  you  can  esteem,  —  no  doubt  of  it  at  all. 
I  hope  you  will  not  forget  to  mention  that  you  yourself  con- 
fessed to  being  deceitful,  and  if  you  will  also  say  that  I 
quite  agree  with  you,  it  will  add  to  the  obligation." 

"  I  shall  not  mention  a  word  of  it,"  I  replied,  swelling 
with  pride  and  mortification  ;  "  it  has  been  strictly  confi- 
dential, and  I  can  only  wish  now,  very  sincerely,  that  it 
might  have  ended  differently." 

Caroline  was  walking  about  the  room  in  such  a  passion 
as  I  had  never  seen  her  in,  though  she  was  naturally  of  a 
very  excitable  disposition  ;  —  her  eyes  sparkled,  her  cheeks 
were  suffused  with  crimson,  her  whole  figure  seemed  to 
dilate  ;  and  she  replied,  in  a  tone  of  the  bitterest  contempt, 
that,  for  her  part,  she  wondered  how  such  a  conversation 
could  end  otherwise  than  by  a  cessation  of  all  friendliness 
on  the  part  of  the  injured  party  j  that  she  was  thankful 
for  this  dJnoueme?tf,  and  for  the  avowal  of  my  sentiments  ; 
adding,  in  a  very  galling  manner,  that  she  had  quite  long 
enough  nourished  a  serpent  in  her  bosom  ;^"  and  as  to  this 
strictly  confidential  conversation,"  she  repeated,  "it  may 
be  kept  to  yourself  for  a  time  ;  but  I  mistake  you  and  your 
sincerity  very  much  if  Frances  does  not  know  the  whole 
of  it  within  a  week." 

"  I  shall  not  repeat  a  word  of  it  to  her,  either  now  or  at 
any  future  time,"  I  repeated,  passionately. 

"  As  you  please,"  Caroline  began,  and  paused  suddenly 
in  her  excited  pacing  of  the  chamber ;  presently  adding, 
more  calmly,  though  still  in  an  angry  tone,  "  I  never  asked 
you  'to  make  such  a  solemn  and  deliberate  promise  ;  but 
since  you  have  thought  proper  to  do  so,  of  your  own  ac- 
cord, I  suppose  you  have  some  reason  for  it." 


The  Stolen  Treasure.  253 

As  she  went  on  with  this  sentence,  she  spoke  more 
slowly,  and  with  unusual  emphasis,  as  if  she  wished  fully 
to  impress  on  my  mind  that  I  had  made  this  promise,  and 
also  as  if  its  importance  to  herself  unfolded  itself  more 
and  more.  I  was  forcibly  struck  by  this  change  and  this 
sudden  coolness,  where  there  had  been  so  much  passion. 
I  perceived  that  now  she  had  this  promise  she  was  quite 
at  her  ease,  and  it  pained  me  inexpressibly  to  perceive 
that  no  part  of  her  excitement  and  agitation  had  arisen 
from  her  quarrel  with  me,  and  this  unceremonious  break- 
ing up  of  our  friendship,  but  only  from  the  fear  of  my 
repeating  her  words ;  and  I  was  so  vexed  and  so  heart- 
sore  at  the  utter  loss  of  her  affection,  that  though  I  could 
now  esteem  her  less  than  ever,  I  could  not  help  shedding 
some  very  bitter  tears  when  I  saw  her  take  up  a  fan,  and 
walk  about  near  the  windows  to  cool  herself,  then  go  to 
the  glass,  smooth  her  hair,  and  arrange  her  ribbons  with 
elaborate  care,  and  finally  walk  out  of  the  room  without 
deigning  to  bestow  on  me  one  look  or  one  word. 

Many  sorrowful  feelings  combined  to  make  me  glad  to 
remain  alone  for  a  while  after  Caroline  had  left  me  ;  I  re- 
proached myself  for  the  clumsy  way  in  which  I  had  man- 
aged my  part  in  the  conversation,  and  wept  with  wounded 
affection,  and  perhaps  also  injured  pride,  and,  like  Caro- 
line, I  thought  this  was  the  most  miserable  half-holiday 
I  had  ever  passed.  At  length,  when  the  redness  that 
Caroline  had  spoken  of  was  faded  from  my  features,  I 
stole  down  stairs,  and  perceiving,  through  the  staircase- 
window,  that  most  of  the  girls  were  still  in  the  garden,  I 
took  my  way  to  the  school-room,  that  I  might  be  alone, 
and  there  I  saw  —  what?  Why,  Caroline  and  Frances 
sitting  together,  doing  a  piece  of  bead-work,  and  talking 
in  the  most  amicable  manner  possible  ! 

Remarkable  sight !  I  was  too  bashful  to  come  close, 
but  sat  down  at  the  first  desk.    Caroline  had  perhaps  made 


254  Studies  for  Stories. 

some  kind  of  apology  to  Frances ;  for  the  latter  looked 
pleased,  and  little  May  sat  at  her  feet,  quite  happy  again, 
and  trying  to  thread  some  very  large  beads,  but  continually 
scattering  them,  and  scrambling  under  the  table  to  pick 
them  up.  At  last,  taking  advantage  of  a  pause  in  the  dis- 
course, she  leaned  against  Frances's  knee,  and  exclaimed, 
without  any  preface,  "  But  when  is  she  to  come  ?  —  she  is 
such  a  long  time  coming." 

"  I  told  you,"  said  Frances,  "that  she  should  come  when- 
ever you  could  count  a  hundred,  without  making  a  mis- 
take." 

"Will  she  have  blue  eyes  ?"  proceeded  May  ;  "will  she 
have  blue  eyes.  Miss  Chris-tiana  Frances  ? " 

"  Blue  eyes  and  flaxen  hair,"  replied  Frances,  "  and  two 
little  pink  shoes  that  will  take  on  and  off." 

"  O  !  I  do  want  her  so  much." 

"  What  is  the  child  talking  of  ?  "  asked  Caroline. 

"  Of  a  wax  doll  that  I  have  promised  her  when  she  can 
count  a  hundred,  for  she  has  been  very  idle  lately ;  and 
when  she  has  learned  this  one  thing,  not  before,  I  shall 
give  her  the  doll  for  a  reward." 

"  Not  before,"  sighed  little  May  ;  "  and  her  frock  is  to 
be  a  white  frock.  Miss  Chris-tiana  Frances  ?  O  !  I  wish 
she  would  come  to-night." 

Frances  smiled.  "Well,  begin  then,"  she  said,  "one, 
two,  three,  and  if  you  go  on  properly  to  a  hundred  she  shall 
come  to-night."  By  this  she  convinced  me  that  the  doll 
was  already  in  her  possession,  and  ready  to  be  given  at  a 
moment's  notice.  I  am  very  much  mistaken  if  the  same 
idea  did  not  strike  Caroline,  for  she  also  smiled  and  said  "  / 
never  should  have  patience  to  keep  back  anything  that  I 
was  teased  for."  This  she  said  in  French,  and  Frances 
answered,  "  I  have  passed  my  word." 

May  began  to  count,  —  Frances  took  her  up  on  her 
knees  :  the  little  creature  laid  her  head  on  her  bosom  as 


The  Stolen  Treasure.  255 

on  a  place  of  tried  security,  —  and  when  she  reached  six- 
teen she  stopped,  and  had  to  be  prompted,  and  then  Fran- 
ces discovered  that  her  feet  were  cold,  and  took  off  her 
shoes  to  warm  them,  and  a  great  deal  of  kissing  and  ca- 
ressing went  on  between  them  ;  upon  seeing  which,  a  cloud 
passed  over  Carohne's  brow. 

"  Let  me  warm  them  for  you,"  she  presently  said. 

"  O,  no,  thank  you  !  "  said  Frances  ;  "  I  could  not  think 
of  troubling  you."  She  spoke  exactly  as  she  might  have 
done  if  May  had  been  her  sister,  her  natural  charge.  "  Now, 
May,  go  on." 

"  Shall  she  come,  then,  when  I  can  count  up  to  trenty  ?  " 
pleaded  the  child. 

Frances  shook  her  head. 

"  But  may  n't  she  come,  if  I  kiss  you  a  great  many 
times  ? "  said  May,  suddenly,  as  if  a  bright  idea  had  struck 
her. 

"  She  may  come  when  you  can  count  a  hundred,"  repeat- 
ed Frances. 

"Then  I  will  do  it  right.  Miss  Chris-tiana  Frances," 
exclaimed  May,  with  a  mighty  sigh,  and  she  immediately 
counted  up  to  nineteen  without  once  stopping  even  to  take 
breath. 

All  the  remainder  of  that  evening  Caroline  was  particu- 
larly friendly  to  Frances.  The  next  day,  Madame,  having 
occasion  to  drive  into  the  town,  invited  Caroline  and  an- 
other of  the  pupils  to  accompany  her.  I  happened  to  hear 
Madame  ask  them  whether  they  wished  her  to  buy  any- 
thing ;  for,  when  this  was  the  case,  she  always  chose  to 
know  it  beforehand. 

r  was  standing  close  to  Madame  at  the  time,  holding 
her  gloves,  and  therefore  I  could  not  fail  to  hear  the 
answers  ;  one  I  have  forgotten,  the  other  struck  me  for- 
cibly, it  was  Caroline's,  and  given  in  a  particularly  low 
voice  :  "  She  wished  to  buy  a  doll,"  she  said. 


256  Studies  for  Stories. 


CHAPTER    VI. 

Caroline's  interference. 

I  REMARKED,  at  the  conclusion  of  my  last  chapter, 
that  Madame  drove  away  in  the  pony-chaise  with  Car- 
oline, and  I  soon  forgot  my  speculations  about  the  doll, 
which  the  latter  had  expressed  a  wish  to  purchase.  How 
did  I  contrive  so  easily  to  forget  a  thing  in  its  nature  so 
interesting?  Why,  my  dear  readers,  I  think  at  this  dis- 
tance of  time  I  can  venture  to  confide  to  you,  that  having 
then  reached  the  ripe  age  of  fifteen,  I  was  deeply  engaged 
in  the  writing  of  a  grand  epic  poem,  upon  which  I  worked 
on  all  hohdays  and  half-holidays. 

Some  of  my  schoolfellows  gave  me  their  select  opinions 
upon  it,  when  I  afterwards  read  it  to  them  in  the  hayloft. 
Over  the  place  where  our  caged  birds  were  kept ;  they  said 
they  thought  it  very  fine ;  they  also  said  they  did  not 
exactly  understand  it ;  I  am  happy  to  say  that  I  had  the 
strength  of  mind  to  burn  it  shortly  after  leaving  school. 

On  this  half-holiday,  as  the  pony-chaise  disappeared, 
I  crept  into  the  said  hayloft,  and  then  .taking  out  my 
pocket  inkglass  and  my  little  folio,  began  to  write ;  and 
was  deep  in  the  distressing  scenes  of  the  death  of  my 
hero,  whom  I  was  causing  to  die  in  the  most  affecting 
manner,  weeping  abundantly  myself  over  the  cruelty  of 
his  enemies,  and  quite  sobbing  at  the  noble  courage  and 
resignation  that  I  was  making  him  display,  when  I  thought 
I  heard  the  least  possible  creaking  behind  me,  and  the 
least  possible  soMpqon  of  a  gentle  titter. 

Perched  as  I  was  upon  the  square-cut  blocks  of  hay, 


The  Stolen  Treasure.  257 

crying  piteously,  so  that  the  tears  blotted  my  page,  my 
bonnet  lying  beside  me,  and  the  whole  loft  radiant  with 
dusty  sunbeams,  could  anything  5e  more  ridiculous  than 
my  position,  or,  unfortunately,  more  conspicuous,  if  any 
of  the  girls  were  watching  me  from  the  top  of  the  ladder- 
like stairs  ?  To  say  that  I  blushed  till  the  very  back  of 
my  neck  was  rosy,  would  but  half  describe  my  glowing 
shame. 

I  did  not  dare  to  turn  round,  and  was  almost  wishing 
that  my  noble  hero  had  never  been  invented,  when  sud- 
denly, "AH  hands  pass  pocket-handkerchiefs!"  cried  a 
voice  that  I  knew,  "to  dry  the  Muse's  tears." 

We  were  reading  just  then  in  class  the  history  of  the 
last  naval  war,  and  used  to  adopt  its  sea  phrases  as  well 
as  we  could. 

Instantly  a  pocket-handkerchief,  rolled  up  like  a  ball, 
struck  me  on  the  back  ;  another  flew  over  my  head  ;  more, 
more  ;  there  were  eight  of  them  flying  about  me  ,-  and  after 
this  shower  the  owners  rushed  in  pell-mell,  and  flung 
themselves  on  the  hay  in  convulsions  of  laughter :  some 
had  their  shoes  in  their  hands,  having  taken  them  off 
below  that  they  might  ascend  more  gently ;  some  kissed 
and  apologized  ;  some  with  mock  gravity  wiped  my  cheeks, 
and  then  tried  to  read  the  blotted  manuscript,  adroitly 
substituting  pieces  of  the  Italian  grammar  where  it  baffled 
their  efforts  at  deciphering. 

They  were  all  in  ecstasies  at  my  discovered  absurdity ; 
and  as  for  me,  when  the  first  moments  of  shame  were  over, 
I  laughed  more  than  any  of  them,  and  was  extremely  anx- 
ious to  disavow  my  poetic  fervor,  and  to  make  humble 
apologies  for  having  deserted  those  gifted  spirits,  my 
schoolfellows,  for  the  sake  of  writing  verses  in  a  hayloft. 

We  went  into  the  garden  and  amused  ourselves  in  vari- 
ous ways,  till  the  afternoon  suddenly  clouding,  we  betook 
ourselves  to  the  house ;  the  elder  girls  withdrew  to  the 

Q 


258  Studies  for  Stories. 

dining-parlor ;  the  little  ones  to  the  school-room,  and  I 
only  of  the  upper  class  went  with  them,  for  I  was  helping 
them  to  make  a  tiny  grotto,  which  was  to  be  presented  to 
Madame  on  her  birthday,  and  the  shells  for  which  we 
sorted  on  the  window-sills  of  this  long  room. 

We  were  all  kneeling  on  the  floor,  sedulously  intent  on 
our  sorting,  with  the  exception  of  little  May,  whom  Frances 
had  just  sent  in,  and  who  was  playing  about  the  room, 
jumping  over  the  hassocks,  when  the  pony-chaise  drove 
up,  and  immediately  after  Caroline  came  in,  with  a  large 
silver-paper  parcel  in  her  hand. 

Now  I  have  before  adverted  to  the  fact  that  I  was  at 
that  time  remarkably  small  for  my  years ;  consequently, 
when  Caroline  glanced  round,  I  can  scarcely  doubt  that 
she  overlooked  my  individual  presence,  only  thinking  that 
all  the  Httle  ones  were  there  at  their  play,  for  I  have  since 
believed  that  if  she  had  seen  me  she  would  have  used  more 
caution  in  what  she  said. 

She  was  blooming  with  air  and  exercise,  and  her  lovely 
hazel  eyes  sparkled  as  if  she  were  excited.  "  Where  is 
May  ?  "  she  inquired. 

Several  fingers  pointed  under  the  table,  and  presently 
out  crept  May,  shaking  back  her  extremely  long  curls,  and 
bearing  a  hassock  in  her  arms.  The  little  creature  was 
flushed  with  the  effort.  CaroHne  smiled  pleasantly  on  her, 
and  said,  "Where  do  you  think  I  have  been,  you  tiny 
thing  ?  " 

May  answered,  in  a  matter-of-fact  way,  that  she  knew. 

"  O,  then  you  don't  want  to  hear  anything  about  it  ?  " 
observed  Caroline,  "  nor  to  be  told  what  I  have  got  in  this 
parcel .'"' 

May,  upon  this,  put  down  the  hassock,  and  came  close 
to  where  Caroline  had  seated  herself  on  a  form. 

"You  cannot  guess  what  is  inside  there  ? "  asked  Caro- 
line, laying  her  hand  upon  the  softly  rustling  paper. 


The  Stolen  Treasure.  259 

"  I  can  guess,"  cried  an  eager  looker-on  from  the  win- 
dow-seat. "And  I  am  sure  I  know,"  exclaimed  another. 
The  folded  toy  was  as  lovely  a  doll  as  ever  enriched  the 
eyes  of  a  little  mortal. 

"  Look  at  it,"  said  Caroline ;  "  I  will  just  undo  a  piece 
of  the  paper."  She  did  so,  and  displayed  a  flaxen-haired 
beauty,  with  smiling  red  lips,  and  gay  blue  eyes. 

"  A  doll ! "  said  May,  gravely  laying  one  finger  on  its 
face,  in  her  own  peculiarly  infantile  manner. 

"  She  is  nearly  as  tall  as  you  are,"  said  CaroHne ;  "  I 
wonder  who  she  is  for  ?  " 

"  I  wonder  who  she  is  for  ? "  repeated  the  fascinated 
child,  looking  down  on  the  doll's  face. 

"  Well,  I  will  tell  you,"  rephed  Caroline ;  "  here,  take 
her,  she  is  for  you." 

May  looked  at  her,  and  then  putting  her  hands  behind 
her,  said  wistfully,  "  My  doll 's  not  coming  to-day,  because 
I  did  n't  count  a  hundred  ;  perhaps  she  's  coming  to- 
morrow." 

"  This  is  your  doll,"  persisted  Carohne,  laughing ;  "  is 
she  not  a  beauty  ?  " 

"  But  I  only  did  it  right  up  to  eighty-one,"  said  the  child ; 
"  and  my  Miss  Chris-tiana  Frances  said  my  doll  might  not 
come  till  to-morrow." 

"  You  silly  little  thing !  "  said  Caroline,  coloring  and 
laughing ;  "  look,  this  is  a  doll  that  /  am  going  to  give 
you  ;  it  is  a  present  from  tne.  When  you  can  count  a 
hundred.  Miss  Christiana  Frances  can  give  you  another 
doll,  if  she  likes  ;  but  this  is  yours  now.  Here,  I  bought 
it  for  you  ;  kiss  me  and  take  it." 

May  seemed  now  to  understand,  and,  with  a  rapturous 
laugh,  she  sprung  to  Caroline,  and  threw  her  arms  about 
her  neck,  and  kissed  her.  CaroHne  took  her  up,  and  gave 
her  the  great  doll,  and  praised  it,  pointing  out  its  beauty 
and  its  good  qualities.     The  child  blushed  for  joy.     "  Are 


26o  Studies  for  Stories. 

you  sure  she  is  my  doll  ? "  she  exclaimed ;  "  and  what 
will  Miss  Chris-tiana  Frances  say  ?  " 

Caroline  made  an  impatient  gesture,  and  replied  :  "  Miss 
Black  can  give  you  a  doll  when  she  likes,  May,  and  I  can 
give  you  one  when  /  like  ;  it  does  not  at  all  matter  to  me 
what  other  people  do  ;  and  look,  here  is  something  more 
for  you."  So  saying,  she  produced  a  paper  of  sugared 
almonds.  "There,"  she  continued,  "these  are  for  you,  all 
for  you,  because  you  are  the  youngest  little  girl  in  the 
school,  and  you  are  my  little  pet.     Kiss  me." 

May  readily  did  as  she  was  desired,  and  forthwith 
opened  "the  tempting  paper,  and  began  to  eat  an  almond. 

"  Nannette  has  a  pocket  in  her  best  frock,"  she  ob- 
served to  her  new  friend. 

"  Would  you  hke  to  have  one  in  your  frock  to  keep  your 
almonds  in  ?  "  asked  Caroline. 

"  O  yes  !  "  replied  May,  confidingly ;  "  and  I  shall  ask 
my  Miss  Chris-tiana  Frances  to  make  me  a  little  pocket, 
and  perhaps  she  will,  if  I  'm  good." 

"  If  you  're  good  !  —  poor  little  thing,"  said  Carohne, 
with  ill-timed  pity.  "  Well,  May,  I  will  make  you  a  pocket, 
for  little  girls  cannot  always  be  good." 

"  No,"  said  May,  simply ;  "  I  was  n't  good  when  I 
sucked  the  paints." 

"  What  paints  ?  "  asked  Caroline. 

"  Those  little  paints  in  my  Miss  Chris-tiana's  box  ;  I 
thought  they  were  chocolates,  and  I  bit  them." 

"Yes,  and  she  made  her  Hps  all  blue,"  said  Nannette, 
breaking  into  the  conversation ;  "  and  when  Massey 
washed  her,  the  soap  got  into  her  mouth." 

This  cheering  conclusion  to  the  affair  being  brought 
forward,  May  observed,  in  a  deeply  reflective  tone,  "  I 
shall  not  suck  the  paints  any  more." 

Carohne  laughed.  "Well,  May,"  she  said,  "you  may 
go  and  fetch  my  work-box,  and  I  will  make  you  a  pocket 
now." 


The  Stolen  Treasure.  261 

May's  delight  was  very  great.  She  ran  for  the  box,  and 
a  little  pocket  was  set  in  hand  instantly ;  Caroline  talking 
pleasantly  while  at  work  about  the  doll,  and  how  she 
would  make  a  frock  and  a  hat  for  her,  while  May  prattled 
in  a  confiding  way  that  she  had  not  shown  her  before. 

^'  There,"  she  said,  when  the  pocket  was  sewed  in, 
"now,  whenever  you  want  anything,  httle  one,  you  may 
come  to  me,  and  I  dare  say  I  shall  be  able  to  do  it  for 
you." 

"  Yes,"  said  May,  "  when  my  Miss  Chris-tiana  Frances 
has  n't  time  :  "  and  then,  indicating  the  kind  of  thing  she 
generally  wanted  doing,  she  said,  "  Can  you  play  at  Loto, 
and  draw  cats  and  two  little  kittens.  Miss  Baker  ;  and  can 
you  draw  pigs  with  curly  tails  ? " 

"  O,  I  can  do  a  great  many  things  for  little  girls  who 
love  me,"  said  Caroline. 

"  I  love  you,"  responded  May. 

"  Are  you  sure  you  do  ?  "  asked  Caroline. 

"  O  yes,  I  love  you  very  much  indeed  to-day,"  replied 
the  frank  little  creature,  and  added,  "  I  did  n't  love  you  any 
of  the  other  days." 

"  Do  you  love  me  as  much  as  Miss  Christiana  Frances  ?  " 
asked  Caroline. 

May  laughed  as  if  she  considered  the  question  absurd, 
but  presently  said,  in  a  consoling  tone,  "  I  can't  yet,  but 
perhaps  I  will  soon." 

"  You  small  oddity  !  "  said  Caroline,  "  do  you  remember 
seeing  that  pretty  little  locket  that  I  wear  sometimes  ?  " 

"  O  yes,"  answered  the  child.  "  You  mean  that  one  that 
I  opened  when  I  saw  it  in  your  box,  and  you  slapped  me, 
and  said  I  was  n't  to  touch  it." 

This  was  rather  an  awkward  recollection,  but  Caroline 
passed  it  on,  and  said,  "  K  I  thought  you  really  did  love 
me,  I  would  put  a  little  piece  oi your  hair  in  it;  would 
you  like  that  ?  " 


262  Studies  for  Stories. 

May  replied  that  she  should,  quahfying  the  admission 
though  by  stipulating  that  she  was  to  cut  off  the  lock  of 
hair  herself,  and  she  was  to  see  it  put  behind  the  little  bit 
of  glass  !  To  this  Caroline  assented,  taking  out  whatever 
may  have  been  in  the  locket  before,  and  tying  the  shining 
morsel  of  May's  wavy  hair  with  a  piece  of  gold  thread. 

I  felt  a  good  deal  of  indignation  throughout  this  scene, 
and  it  never  occurred  to  me  that  CaroHne  was  unconscious 
of  my  presence,  till  one  of  the  httle  ones  happening  to  appeal 
to  me  by  name  about  a  shell,  she  uttered  an  exclamation 
of  astonishment  and  annoyance,  and  instantly  started  up 
and  left  the  room.  She  had  not  been  gone  two  minutes, 
when  Frances  entered,  and  May  rushing  up  to  her,  with 
one  hand  in  her  new  pocket,  and  her  great  doll  under  the 
other  arm,  burst  forth  into  a  confused  speech,  with  no 
stops,  and  very  httle  sense  in  it,  but  full  of  delight  and  ex- 
ultation. 

"  What  is  it,  my  little  darling  }  "  said  Frances,  looking 
down  on  the  small  face  which  was  quite  suffused  with 
blushes  of  dehght  and  pride. 

"  I  did  n't  count  a  hundred,"  said  May,  in  a  great  hurry, 
"  but  Miss  Baker  gave  me  my  doll,  and  she  said  I  was  to 
keep  it,  and  she  said  it  was  mine,  and  I  've  got  a  pocket 
that  Miss  Baker  made,  and  please  will  you  have  one  of  my 
sugared  almonds.  Miss  Chris-tiana  Frances  ?  " 

Frances  took  the  doll,  and  I  have  seldom  seen  a  face 
change  more  than  hers  did,  when  the  truth  dawned  upon 
her.  She  was  very  keen-sighted  and  quick-witted,  and  it 
seemed  (if  I  am  not  mistaken)  to  strike  her  at  once  that 
CaroHne  was  trying  to  supplant  her  in  the  affections  of  her 
little  favorite.  She  colored  exceedingly,  —  her  surprise 
and  pain  were  evident,  —  but  little  May,  who,  in  the.  midst 
of  her  delighted  excitement,  seemed  to  have  preserved  a 
kind  of  suspicion  that  this  doll  might  possibly  be  forfeited 
to  the  higher  powers,  and  that  she  had  not  come  quite 


The  Stolen  Treasure.  263 

honestly  by  it  after  all,  sobbed  out  in  a  half-crying  tone  : 
"  I  did  n't  ask  for  her  ;  Miss  Baker  said  I  might  keep  her  ; 
she  said  she  bought  her  for  me."  Then  Frances  controlled 
herself,  and  giving  back  the  doll  to  May,  who  was  stretch- 
ing up  her  arms  for  it,  said,  "  Yes,  she  is  your  doll,  and 
you  are  to  keep  her,  if  Miss  Baker  gave  her  to  you,  my 
little  May." 

"  And  will  you  kiss  me,  and  may  I  sit  on  your  knee  ? " 
said  the  child,  still  aware  that  something  was  wrong. 

"  My  little  treasure  !  "  said  Frances,  with  a  sigh  of  in- 
expressible regret ;  but  she  sat  down  and  took  up  the  child 
and  her  doll,  sitting  silent  and  deep  in  thought,  while  May 
descanted  on  the  many  perfections  of  her  present,  and 
while  she  related  how  Miss  Baker  had.  shut  up  a  bit  of  her 
hair  in  that  funny  httle  box,  and  she  had  looked  at  it  be- 
hind the  glass. 

Frances  was  evidently  pained  and  hurt.  She  made  no 
reply  to  the  child's  prattlings  ;  but  when  the  girls  came  in, 
as  they  shortly  did,  to  tea,  Frances  turned  to  Caroline, 
and  said  to  her  in  French,  "  I  thought  you  were  quite 
aware.  Miss  Baker,  that  I  had  got  a  doll  ready  for  May; 
indeed,  I  believe  I  had  told  you  so."  She  spoke  coldly, 
and  with  some  hauteur.  Caroline  answered  with  no  less, 
"  No,  I  was  never  told  so." 

"  But  the  subject  was  alluded  to,  and  half-explained  in 
your  presence,"  I  could  not  help  saying  ;  "  and  you  re- 
marked that  if  you  had  had  such  a  toy  in  your  possession, 
you  could  not  have  kept  it  back  from  a  child." 

"  We  all  know,  Sophia,  that  you  have  a  most  excellent 
memory,"  said  Caroline,  and  she  ?aid  it  in  such  a  way  as  to 
imply  a  reproach,  —  as  if  I  had  been  in  the  habit  of 
using  my  memory  against  my  schoolfellows.  She  con- 
tinued :  "If  Frances  is  really  so  much  attached  to  the 
child  as  she  professes  to  be,  I  cannot  understand  why  she 
is  otherwise  than  pleased  at  her  having  a  toy  given  her. 


264  Studies  for  Stories. 

It  seeftis  to  me  selfish  to  wish  that  no  one  but  herself 
should  give  her  anything." 

"  I  have  no  such  wish,"  said  Frances,  with  some  heat. 
The  other  girls  looked  on  surprised. 

"  It  is  not  only  that  I  think  you  might  have  chosen  a 
present  which  would  not  have  made  mine  valueless,"  said 
Frances,  "  but  that  part  of  my  influence  is  overthrown  by 
it,  and  my  reward  made  nothing  worth  trying  for.  Besides," 
she  continued,  "it  is  difficult  for  me  to  think  that  your 
present  was  accidentally  the  same  as  my  own." 

"  Indeed,"  repHed  CaroHne,  with  provoking  calm  ;  "well, 
I  hope  the  poor  child  at  least  will  be  pleased  with  her  doll, 
for  it  is  evident  that  other  people  are  not  pleased  ;  and,  as 
Madame  has  given  you  such  unbounded  authority  over 
May,  you  had  better  mention  to  her  that  my  being  fond 
of  the  child  endangers  your  exclusive  right,  and  ask  her  to 
forbid  my  speaking  to  May,  or  even  looking  at  her :  no 
doubt  she  will." 

"  Caroline  !  "  exclaimed  Frances,  surprised  at  this  strange 
speech.  "  Come  to  me,  my  pet,"  said  Carohne  to  May, 
who,  during  this  French  conversation,  had  been  leaning 
against  Frances  ;  "  did  they  let  her  stand  all  this  time,  and 
take  no  notice  of  her  ? "  May  readily  held  out  her  arms, 
and  seeing  the  locket  hanging  round  Caroline's  neck,  be- 
gan to  play  with  it,  and  to  relate  to  all  whom  it  might  con- 
cern, how  this  was  her  hair,  and  how  Miss  Baker  said  she 
should  always  wear  it,  even  when  she  was  grown  up  to  be 
a  lady. 

There  was  a  way  in  which  these  little  things  were  said 
and  done  that  seemed  greatly  to  pain  Frances.  Caroline 
patronized  May  as  if  she  was  the  most  friendless  little 
creature  possible,  with  no  toys  to  play  with,  and  no  one  to 
take  pity  on  her ;  but  the  teachers  presently  coming  in  to 
preside  at  the  tea-table,  put  an  end  to  the  conversation  ; 
and  when  I  heard  Caroline  privately  whispering  to  May 


The  Stolen   Treasure.  265 

that  she  was  to  sit  next  her,  I  slipped  into  the  place  by 
Frances,  for  I  saw  that  May  would  not  occupy  it,  and  I 
hoped  Frances  would  not  observe  Caroline's  acts,  or  at 
least  that  I  should  spare  her  feelings,  by  preventing  a 
discussion  ;  but  my  intention  was  frustrated  by  the  little 
creature  herself,  who,  running  up  to  Frances,  said,  in  a 
supphcatory  tone,  "  Please  may  I  sit  next  Miss  Baker 
to-night  ?  She  did  ask  me  ;  she  said  I  should  not  be  any 
trouble." 

"You  may  sit  wherever  you  please,  my  dear,"  said 
Frances,  gently.  So  httle  May  ran  round  delighted,  say- 
ing aloud,  "  I  may,  I  may,  Mis§  Baker  ;  Miss  Chris-tiana 
Frances  says  I  may  sit  by  you  to-night." 

She  was  a  privileged  person,  this  little  May,  and  allowed 
to  take  many  Hberties  of  locomotion  not  permitted  to  her 
elders  ;  but  I  thought  the  triumph  of  having  her  was  a 
little  damped  for  Carohne  by  the  occasional  reproofs  of 
the  EngUsh  teacher,  a  personage  who  by  no  means 
rehshed  change  and  innovation.  "  Miss  Baker,  I  will 
thank  you  to  cut  that  crust,  it  is  too  hard  for  Miss  Mer- 
ton's  teeth."  "  Miss  Baker,  Miss  Merton  is  spilling  her 
milk."  "  Pray,  Miss  Baker,  why  is  Miss  Merton  without 
her  pinafore  ?  "  and  so  on. 

.  Poor  little  May,  I  must  needs  pity  her,  when  I  remem- 
ber the  siege  that  was  laid  to  her  baby  heart,  and  the  de- 
terioration which  from  day  to  day  ensued  in  her  behavior, 
from  Caroline's  unwise  and  capricious  indulgence  >  for  this 
day  proved  only  a  sample  of  many  days  that  were  to  fol- 
low, and  Caroline  seemed  to  take  positive  delight  in  doing 
all  she  could  to  destroy  the  influence  of  Frances,  to  thwart 
her  plans,  and  steal  her  cherished  treasure. 

In  all  things  that  gave  trouble.  May  was  still  left  to  Fran- 
ces, and  though  she  did  not  seem  absolutely  to  fail  in  her 
allegiance  to  her  first  friend,  she  was  naturally  attracted 
by  the  presents,  caresses,  and  petting  of  Carohne ;   and 
12 


266  Studies  for  Stories. 

really  it  seemed  as  if  Frances  herself  was  less  kind  than 
formerly,  for  if  May  became  tiresome  and  naughty  from 
over-indulgence,  Caroline  would  have  no  more  to  do  with 
her ;  so  that  Frances  had  the  reproving  of  her  faults  and 
childish  ill-humors,  and  Caroline  the  rewarding  of  her  good 
behavior. 

Yet  it  was  obvious  to  the  least  acute  observer,  that  Car- 
oline was  doing  this  for  an  object,  — not  for  the  love  of  the 
child ;  for  she  was  sometimes  evidently  fretted  by  the  very 
presence  and  caresses  that  she  had  courted.  But  Frances, 
who  so  deeply  loved  the  child,  was  pained  to  the  heart  for 
the  slack  hold  that  she  npw  had  over  her,  and  which  was 
easily  being  withdrawn  from  her,  —  not  for  May's  own 
good,  or  even  for  the  good  of  the  withdrawer. 

To  Frances  might  have  been  applied  the  words  of  one 
of  our  most  celebrated  modern  writers :  "  I  was  robbed 
for  no  one's  enrichment,  but  for  the  greater  desolation  of 
this  world." 


The  Stolen  Treasure.  267 


CHAPTER    VII. 

HOLIDAYS    AT    THE    SEASIDE. 

IT  was  very  evident  to  us  all  how  much  Frances  felt  the 
interference  of  Caroline  with  the  affection  of  her  httle 
favorite.  The  more  so  this  was  felt,  no  doubt,  because  its 
motives  were  not  understood  by  her,  though  she  knew 
that  Mrs.  Merton  was  coming  home,  and  that  she  was  a 
friend  of  CaroHne's  friends.  She  had  not  been  present  at 
the  conversation  in  which  Caroline  had  shown  very  plainly 
(as  I  thought)  that  her  neglect  of  the  little  child  might  have 
unpleasant  consequences  ;  and  that  Mrs.  Merton,  instead 
of  supposing  that  she  had  shown  any  neglect,  imagined 
that  she  had  devoted  herself  to  May  with  more  than  neces- 
sary kindness. 

But  Caroline  was  now  steadily  advancing  in  little  May's 
good  graces,  and  a  coolness  had  gradually  come  on  be- 
tween Frances  and  herself,  which  she  was  far  from  wishing 
to  ascribe  to  the  real  cause ;  on  the  contrary,  she  affected 
to  beheve  that  she  felt  a  natural  resentment  against  Fran- 
ces for  having  made  a  caricature  of  her,  in  which  she  had 
represented  her  as  an  old  bathing  woman  ;  and  for  having 
encouraged  little  May  to  call  her  Miss  'Quarius,  which 
she  sometimes  did  still,  that  being  her  version  of  "  Aqua- 
rius." Now  there  was  no  question  that  it  was  the  "men- 
tal improver  "  who  had  taught  little  May  this  refined  piece 
of  wit ;  and  as  they  always  laughed  at  her  when  she  said 
it,  the  child  naturally  thought  herself  very  clever,  and  often 
applied  it  to  Caroline,  laughing  exceedingly  at  the  same 
time,  as  if  she  had  understood  her  joke,  which  unquestion- 


268  Studies  for  Stories. 

ably  she  did  not.  But  it  happened  occasionally  that  little 
May,  when  she  was  in  a  saucy  humor,  would  apply  this 
name  to  Frances ;  and  once  when  she  did  so,  Frances 
looked  annoyed,  and  said  to  us,  "  I  wish  you  would  not 
teach  the  child  these  nicknames  ;  I  don't  think  you  have 
any  right  to  make  her  apply  them  to  me  ;  I  never  '  throw 
cold  water'  on  your  pleasures." 

*' Why,  Frances,"  said  one  of  us,  whom  I  will  not  name, 
for  a  reason  I  have  (as  an  Irishman  would  say),  "  that 
name  was  never  meant  for  you  ;  how  can  you  affect  to 
think  it  was  .?  " 

"  For  whom,  then,  was  it  meant  ?  "  asked  Frances,  com- 
posedly. 

"  For  Caroline,  of  course,"  was  the  surprised  reply  ; 
"  But  we  thought  that  you,  of  all  persons,  knew  for  whom 
it  was  meant ;  we  always  thought  that  you  made  that  cari- 
cature." 

"  I  !  "  exclaimed  Frances,  amazed  ;  "  so  far  from  making 
it,  I  did  not  even  see  it.  You  never  showed  it  to  me,  and 
as  there  seemed  to  be  always  some  laughing  and  whisper- 
ing about  it  whenever  I  asked  any  questions,  I  always 
thought  it  must  be  a  caricature  of  me." 

Here  was  a  new  light  thrown  on  the  subject.  "  I  was 
always  surprised  when  I  considered  that  you  had  done  it," 
I  observed,  "  because  it  seemed  so  unlike  you  :  but  who 
did  it,  then  ?  No  one  in  the  house  besides  can  draw  so 
well  as  that  face  of  Caroline  is  done ;  and  indeed  no  one 
else  in  the  house  can  make  likenesses." 

"Let  me  look  at  it,"  said  Frances.  The  drawing  was 
produced  ;  and  Frances,  after  looking  at  it  attentively,  said, 
with  evident  surprise  :  "  This  head  of  CaroHne  is  unques- 
tionably my  doing.  I  remember  now  she  was  sitting  at 
her  French  exercise  when  I  drew  it,  and  I  missed  it,  for  I 
had  intended  to  add  the  figure  ;  but  when  I  looked  over 
my  folio  the  next  day  it  was  not  there."     Here,  then,  was 


The  Stolen   Treasure.  269 

a  deepening  of  the  mystery ;  and  what  school-girl  does  not 
love  a  mystery  ?  "  The  remainder  of  the  drawing,"  con- 
tinued Frances,  "has  been  added  by  another  hand,  —  a 
person  who  draws  in  a  better  and  bolder  style  than  I  do, 
and  who  has  used  quite  a  different  kind  of  pencil." 

"  But  none  of  us  can  draw  in  a  better  and  bolder  style 
than  you  do,"  observed  one  of  our  number ;  "  and  besides, 
here  are  the  four  other  Ukenesses." 

"  I  can  hardly  call  them  likenesses,"  said  Frances  ;  "they 
are  drawings  of  four  extremely  pretty  girls,  about  the  ages 
of  you  four,  and  one  of  them  is  smaller  than  the  others,  and 
has  very  large  dark  eyes  ;  that  one  is  meant  for  Sophia." 
She  went  on  with  her  examination  :  "  One  of  them  has 
long  curly  hair,  and  wears  a  watch  ;  that  one  is  meant  to 
indicate  Belle  ;  but  the  features  bear  no  resemblance  to  her 
whatever." 

Belle  looked  disappointed  ;  we  had  flattered  ourselves 
that  these  faces  did  bear  some  resemblance  to  us,  and  it 
was  mortifying  that  a  judge  of  drawing  should  pronounce 
otherwise. 

"  I  do  not  believe  this  drawing  was  made  in  the  house 
at  all,"  proceeded  Frances.;  "there  is  no  one  here  who 
could  do  it,  excepting  one  of  the  masters,  and  that  is  not 
to  be  thought  of" 

"  Where  was  it  done,  then  ?  "  said  Belle. 

"  Indeed,  I  cannot  say,"  replied  Frances  ;  "  but  it  has 
evidently  been  folded,  just  as  it  might  have  been  if  it  had 
been  sent  somewhere  in  a  letter :  some  people  in  the  house 
write  a  great  many  letters." 

Now  there  was  no  one  in  the  room  but  ourselves  and 
Miss  Ward  -^  and  she  was  sitting  with  her  back  to  us,  writ- 
ing a  letter.  She  was  the  most  impassive  and  tranquil  of 
mortals  ;  she  was  going  to  leave  us  in  a  fortnight ;  and  she 
seldom  mixed  in  any  of  our  amusements  or  conversations. 
She  now,  however,  was  heard  to  laugh  ;  and  when  Frances 


2/0  Studies  for  Stories. 

said,  "  Some  people  write  a  great  many  letters,"  she  re- 
plied, "  Some  people  have  married  sisters." 

"  Yes,  I  know,"  said  Frances,  laughing,  and  thinking  she 
was  only  accounting  for  the  number  of  letters  she  wrote. 
But  when  she  added,  "  Some  people  have  brothers-in-law, 
who  can  draw  in  a  better  and  bolder  style  than  Miss  Black 
does,"  we  all  looked  at  one  another  surprised. 

"It  would  be  a  very  great  satisfaction  to  us  to  know 
something  about  this  said  drawing,"  observed  Belle.  "  It 
would,  particularly  to  Frances,  because  Caroline  makes  her 
supposed  authorship  of  it  an  excuse  for  quarrelling  with 
her ;  at  least,  she  resents  it." 

"  Yes,  I  am  sorry  to  hear  that,"  replied  Miss  Ward,  who 
was  still  writing ;  "  I  thought  that  drawing  had  been  quite 
forgotten,  not  having  heard  it  mentioned  for  weeks  till  to- 
day." 

"Well,  as  I  said  before,"  continued  Frances,  "it  would 
be  a  great  satisfaction  to  know  something  about  it." 

Miss  Ward  laid  down  her  pen  and  wiped  it,  and  put  it 
in  its  place,  and  composedly  shut  her  desk,  and  then  she 
turned  half  round  on  her  chair,  and  said,  "  So  it  would  be, 
no  doubt,  Frances  ;  but  only  think  what  a  pretty  little  mys- 
tery it  would  spoil,  —  utterly  spoil,  —  a  mystery  that  has 
amused  and  excited  these  girls  for  a  quarter  of  a  year  at 
least." 

She  laughed,  and  her  usually  pale  face  had  a  slight  glow, 
as  she  continued,  "  I  have  been  treated  with  great  neglect 
in  the  affair.  Not  one  of  you  even  asked  me  if  I  had  any- 
thing to  do  with  it ;  I  was  the  only  girl  in  the  house  that 
you  passed  over." 

"  How  could  we  possibly  guess  that  you  knew  anything 
of  it  ? "  exclaimed  Belle. 

Miss  Ward  laughed  again,  and  said,  "  Very  compliment- 
ary that  speech ;  however,  you  will  admit  that  the  carica- 
ture has  accomplished  its   mission ;    you  have  endured 


The  Stolefi  Treasure.  271 

scarcely  any  petty  persecution  since  I  pinned  that  paper  on 
Caroline''s  curtain.^''  And  while  we  all  stood  looking  at 
her  in  breathless  surprise,  she  continued;  "Now  hear 
your  mystery  pulled  to  pieces  ;  I  found  that  drawing  of 
Caroline's  head  on  the  floor,  and  thinking  it  was  thrown 
there  as  rubbish  to  be  swept  away,  I  adopted  it  I  ^vrite  a 
good  many  letters,  as  you  have  said,  and  I  often  amuse  my 
sister  with  accounts  of  what  goes  on  here.  One  day  I 
wrote  a  particular  description  of  your  amusing,  and  I  must 
say,  absurd  society ;  and  Tom,  my  brother-in-law,  asked 
me  what  Carohne  was  like,  as  I  described  her  as  the  chief 
persecutor.  So  I  sent  him  the  drawing,  and  a  few  days 
after  came  that  caricature,  which  he  only  sent  as  a  joke, 
and  which  I  pinned  on  Carohne 's  curtain.  But  now  I  find 
it  is  doing  harm;  so  I  shall  certainly  tell  Caroline  the 
whole  affair  the  first  opportunity."  She  had  scarcely  done 
speaking  when  Caroline  came  in,  and  Miss  Ward,  turning 
to  her,  said,  "  I  understand.  Carry,  that  you  do  not  feel 
friendly  with  Frances,  because  you  believe  she  made  this 
drawing." 

Carohne  colored,  and  said,  "No;  she  could  not  but 
think  it  was  not  kind  of  Frances  to  have  done  it,  and  in 
consequence  of  that  she  never  could  love  her." 

"  You  have  no  other  reason  for  not  being  friendly  with 
her  ?  "  asked  Miss  Ward,  composedly. 

"  None  whatever,"  replied  Caroline,  incautiously. 

"  Then,"  said  Miss  Ward,  "  I  hope  to  see  you  recon- 
ciled. Frances  did  not  make  that  drawing,  —  my  brother 
Tom  did,  and  I  pinned  it  on  your  curtain ;  so  please  to 
transfer  your  resentment  to  me.  Carry." 

Now  Miss  Ward  was  taking  the  matter  so  very  coolly, 
that  it  seemed  no  use  to  quarrel  with  her,  and  the  very 
angry  color  that  mounted  to  Caroline's  temples,  and  the 
mortification  expressed  in  every  line  of  her  speaking  fea- 
tures, seemed  less  to  result  from  the  discovery  that  Miss 


272  Studies  for  Stories. 

Ward  was  the  guilty  person,  than  that  Frances  was  not ; 
for  when  the  girls  exclaimed  that  after  this  striking  di- 
noue^nent,  it  was  quite  essential  that  there  should  be  a 
scene,  and  that  the  parties  ought  to  fall  into  one  another's 
arms  and  be  reconciled,  weeping  and  vowing  eternal  friend- 
ship, —  and  when  they  seized  upon  Caroline,  and  pushed 
her  towards  Frances,  the  latter  made  a  step  or  two  forward, 
evidently  intending  to  kiss  her;  but  Carohne  attempted 
to  disengage  herself,  and  reddening  with  confusion  and 
annoyance,  said  there  had  never  been  any  quarrel  between 
her  and  Frances,  and,  therefore,  there  could  be  no  need 
of  a  reconciUation,  especially  a  public  one.  Upon  this, 
Frances  hastily  drew  back ;  she  seemed  to  feel  it  almost 
an  insult  that  Caroline  should  show  such  evident  dishke 
to  the  simple  kiss  she  proffered ;  and  when  Miss  Ward, 
coming  up  to  her,  said,  "  I  hope  you  will  kiss  me  instead, 
Frances,  for  I  have  unintentionally  caused  you  a  great 
deal  of  discomfort,"  she  did  as  requested,  and  then,  turn- 
ing hastily,  went  out  of  the  school-room,  and  ran  up  stairs 
in  a  great  hurry. 

Miss  Ward,  who,  with  all  her  matter-of-fact  quietude, 
was  by  no  means  destitute  of  knowledge  of  character, 
looked  unutterable  things  as  she  observed  Caroline  walk- 
ing about  the  room  fanning  herself,  and  trying  to  be  cool, 
and  to  subdue  the  outward  expression  of  her  annoyance ; 
but  the  younger  pupils  coming  in,  and  beginning  to  set 
out  the  drawings  and  easels  in  preparation  for  our  draw- 
ing-master, she  did  not  say  anything. 

"  Frances  has  not  finished  her  drawing,"  said  one  of 
them,  as  she  put  out  the  foHo  which  contained  Miss  Black's 
beautiful  heads :  "  May,  go  up  and  tell  Miss  Christiana 
that  it  only  wants  ten  minutes  to  Mr.  W.'s  time,  and  ask 
her  if  she  remembers  that  she  is  not  ready." 

Little  May  had  just  entered  the  school-room  when  this 
was  said,  and  she  shook  her  head,  and  laying  a  doll's  apron 


The  Stolen  Treasure.  273 

upon  the  floor,  began  carefully  to  fold  it  up,  saying,  as  she 
did  so,  "  My  Miss  Chris-tiana  Frances  sent  me  down,  and 
said  she  did  not  wish  to  be  disturDed.''''  When  the  small 
garment  was  neatly  pressed  into  a  very  tight  little  square 
between  May's  hands,  she  looked  up  and  said,  simply,  "  I 
sha'n't  ask  my  Miss  Chris-tiana  Frances  to  cut  me  out  my 
doll's  cap  now,  —  I  shall  ask  Massey,  because  my  Miss 
Chris-tiana  Frances  is  crying." 

"  But  she  must  come  down  in  ten  minutes,"  said  Miss 
Ward  ;  "  do  run  to  her,  Sophia ;  remind  her  of  the  lesson, 
and  take  her  my  rose-water  for  her  eyes."  I  accordingly  ran 
up  and  knocked  at  Frances's  door  ;  she  certainly  was  shed- 
ding tears,  and  how  much  I  regretted  my  promise  to  Car- 
oHne  that  I  would  not  mention  anything  that  had  passed 
between  us  on  the  day  of  our  quarrel,  when  Frances  said 
to  me :  "  If  I  could  understand  Caroline,  I  should  not  be 
so  much  vexed.  I  had,  of  course,  observed  her  feelings 
towards  me,  and  her  trying  to  deprive  me  of  little  May ; 
and  now  that  I  seem  to  have  arrived  at  a  motive  for  this 
dislike,  and  she  is  shown  that  it  is  utterly  unjust,  she 
shrinks  from  me  with  absolute  repugnance ;  it  is  evident 
that  her  thinking  me  the  contriver  of  that  drawing  is  not 
the  real  reason  of  her  dislike  to  me ;  I  often  think  she 
must  consider  me  a  kind  of  rival ;  but  I  certainly  have  no 
wish  to  rival  her  in  anything." 

I  could  only  answer  to  all  this  :  "  Talk  to  Miss  Ward, 
dearest  Frances  ;  I  think  she  understands  Caroline  better 
than  any  of  us  "  ;  and  then  the  lesson-bell  ringing,  we  both 
went  down  into  the  school-room. 

It  then  wanted  about  a  fortnight  to  the  holidays,  but  I 
was  not  looking  forward  to  them  with  so  much  pleasure  as 
usual,  because  my  parents  being  abroad,  I  was  to  be  left 
with  Madame.  So  man.y  of  my  schoolfellows  were  in  the 
same  case,  that  there  would  be  no  want  (#  companionship, 
^nd,  on  the  whole,  we  expected  to  enjoy  ourselves  very 
12*  R 


2/4  Studies  for  Stories. 

well,  for  Madame,  with  her  family,  was  going  to  stay  at  the 
seaside,  and  we,  of  course,  were  to  accompany  her.  We, 
therefore,  did  not  make  a  grief  of  the  necessity  of  thus  re- 
maining away  from  home,  though,  as.  I  said  before,  we 
looked  forward  to  the  holidays  with  less  enthusiasm  than 
usual. 

Those  of  us  who  were  to  remain  with  Madame  were 
Miss  PEstrange  and  Belle,  Caroline,  Frances,  httle  May, 
myself,  and  the  schoolfellow  whom  I  before  mentioned, 
without  divulging  her  name ;  also  Madame's  two  Httle 
girls,  and  two  little  French  girls,  cousins  of  theirs. 

I  have  often  thought,  since  leaving  school,  when  reflect- 
ing on  the  many  excellent  quahties  of  Madame,  that  she 
was  the  most  superior  woman,  on  the  whole,  that  I  have 
ever  been  privileged  to  meet  with.  It  was  not  only  her 
remarkable  uprightness  and  openness  in  little  things  that 
made  us  so  comfortable  with  her,  —  it  was  not  only  her 
wonderful  insight  into  character  that  was  such  a  safeguard 
to  us,  making  us  so  sure  that  in  the  long  run  she  would 
certainly  understand  us  and  do  us  justice,  —  but  she  was 
so  completely  above  those  little  arts  which  some  of  her 
craft  condescend  to.  She  had  such  a  genial  disposition, 
and  so  sincerely  loved  to  make  her  young  people  happy, 
that  we  trusted  to  her  more  implicitly  and  felt  more  at  ease 
(when  we  had  nothing  to  conceal)  under  her  scrutinizing 
eyes,  than  we  could  have  done  with  many  a  person  with  a 
more  tender  heart,  and  who  would  have  ruled  us  with  a 
slacker  hand.  She  never,  in  the  least,  shrank  from  her  po- 
sition as  a  schoolmistress,  and  would  often  say,  "  This  is 
my  school^  and  you  are  my  scholars  ;  you  are  at  school,  la- 
dies, and  you  are  not  to  respect  me  merely  as  a  gentlewo- 
man, but  as  your  mistress."  I  need  not  say  that  this  was 
a  strikingly  different  speech  to  what  many  ladies  in  her 
position  would  h^e  uttered.  "  I  have  been  so  many  years 
at  school,"  we  were  taught  to  say,  instead  of,  "  I  have  been 


The  Stolen   Treasure.  275 

so  many  years  at  Madame's,"  or  "  so  many  years  at  the 
WiUows." 

But  Madame  had  another  quality  for  which  we  were  all 
grateful ;  a  parent  or  friend  of  certain  pupils  sometimes 
came  to  stay  a  few  days ;  and  when  this  was  the  case, 
those  particular  pupils  were  never  extolled  at  the  expense 
of  the  others,  nor  made  out  to  be  particularly  interesting 
to  Madame,  nor  at  all  more  kindly  treated  than  usual.  No 
new-comer  had  to  complain,  that  after  her  mother  or  guar- 
dian was  gone,  Madame  did  not  make  so  much  of  her,  or 
allow  her  so  much  liberty  as  at  first.  The  consequence 
was,  that  we  all  thoroughly  respected  our  "  Mistress " ; 
and  when  she  said  to  us  at  the  commencement  of  the  hol- 
idays, "  Now,  young  ladies,  you  who  remain  with  me  may 
consider  yourselves  not  as  my  pupils,  but  during  the  next 
six  weeks  as  my  guests,"  we  so  thoroughly  believed  her  at 
her  word,  that  we  felt  like  guests,  and  could  talk  to  her 
with  a  freedom  that  at  other  times  we  never  should  have 
ventured  to  assume  for  a  moment. 

The  holidays  came  ;  we  saw  the  other  girls  drive  away, 
and  were  a  little  sorry  at  first ;  but  then  there  was  the  sea- 
side to  look  forward  to,  and  there  were  the  stories  of  Miss 
I'Estrange  and  Belle  to  listen  to  respecting  bygone  holi- 
days, for  they  had  spent  many  at  school,  and  declared  that 
they  had  been  delightful. 

We  got  up  the  morning  after  the  other  pupils  had  left, 
with  a  curious  sense  of  freedom.  In  Madame's  own  par- 
lor the  breakfast  cloth  was  spread,  and  there  being  no 
teachers,  Madame  herself  made  tea,  and  after  breakfast 
she  asked  if  some  of  us  would  like  to  go  over  to  the  town 
in  the  pony  carriage,  and  make  some  purchases  for  her. 
Of  course  some  of  us  did  like,  and  she  requested  the  oth- 
ers to  come  into  the  greenhouse  and  help  her  there  ;  so  we 
had  a  very  sociable  and  delightful  morning,  Madame  tell- 
ing us  amusing  stories  of  French  society,  and  the  school 
she  had  herself  attended  when  a  little  girl. 


276  Studies  for  Stories, 

Dear,  good  woman,  how  kind  she  was  to  us  !  and  how 
we  did  enjoy  ourselves  during  the  packing,  at  which  we  all 
assisted ;  and  then  set  off  in  two  post-chaises  for  the  sea- 
side, enjoying  the  thoughts  of  this  change  the  more  because 
we  had  been  told  that  the  place  we  were  going  to  was  not 
a  town,  nor  even  a  village,  but  a  soHtary  hotel,  standing 
alone  by  the  sea,  with  no  other  house  within  half  a  mile ; 
so  that  we  could  dress  as  we  liked,  and  dehght  in  the  rustic 
country  round  with  a  freedom  that  one  cannot  feel  at  a 
fashionable  watering-place. 

The  chaise  in  which  I  travelled  contained  Madame's 
little  girls  in  the  rumble,  and  Carohne,  Frances,  and  httle 
May  inside.  I  should  have  liked  the  journey  very  much 
but  for  Caroline's  unfriendly  conduct  to  Frances  ;  for  to 
the  latter  Madame  had  specially  intrusted  May  ;  and  Caro- 
line, seeming  to  be  jealous,  appeared  determined  to  tempt 
and  incite  the  child  to  such  behavior  as  should  do  no  credit 
to  Frances's  utmost  care.  Now  she  would  offer  her  fruit, 
and  when  Frances  reminded  her  that  it  was  a  forbidden 
luxury,  she  argued  that  a  little  would  not  hurt  her ;  an(J 
when  the  child,  seeing'  it  all  the  time,  naturally  begged  for 
it,  CaroHne  seemed  to  yield,  and  said,  "Yes,  she  should 
have  it,  if  Frances  would  let  her."  Frances  said  no,  and 
the  child  having  been  allowed  to  see  it,  and  hope  for  it,  not 
unnaturally  began  to  cry.  Caroline,  upon  this,  ought  to 
have  abstained  from  it  herself,  that  the  httle  creature  might 
not  see  it ;  on  the  contrary,  she  not  only  ate  the  apricots 
that  she  had  brought  with  her,  but,  at  the  first  market-town 
we  came  to,  bought  some  tempting  green-gages,  and  again 
renewed  the  subject  by  asking  if  a  few  ripe  plums  could 
"  possibly  hurt  the  poor  child." 

The  poor  child,  upon  thus  hearing  her  claims  so  patheti- 
cally set  forth,  listened  with  eager  interest  to  a  second  dia- 
logue between  Frances  and  Ca'roline  as  to  the  propriety  of 
her  having  any  ;  and  when  it  was  decided  against  her,  she 


The  Stolen  Treasure.  '       277 

was  very  cross,  cried  again,  and  said  Frances  was  a  cross 
lady,  and  she  would  not  sit  on  her  knee.  Thereupon  Caro- 
line took  her  ;  and  of  course  Frances  could  not  be  pleased, 
particularly  as  by  her  injudicious  comforting  and  condoling 
she  made  the  child  extremely  troublesome,  and  entirely 
took  away  the  pleasure  of  our  drive. 

It  was  six  o'clock  in  the  evening  when  we  first  caught 
sight  of  the  sea ;  we  were  coming  towards  it  through  a 
perfectly  level  pastoral  country  ;  the  rich  fields  were  filled 
with  white  flocks  and  herds,  with  spreading  and  particu- 
larly formidable-looking  horns.  There  were  few  hedges  ; 
the  land  being  very  damp,  was  drained  by  deep  ditches, 
which  served  to  enclose  the  wide  open  pastures,  and  thus  we 
had  two  vast  plains  within  our  view,  —  that  of  the  land  and 
that  of  the  water,  —  the  one  diversified  here  and  there  by 
a  white  sail,  the  other  by  a  brown  steeple.  Now  this  pros- 
pect does  not  sound  beautiful,  yet  it  certainly  possessed  a 
solemn  and  pecuHar  grandeur  of  its  own  :  over  sea  and 
land  alike  we  could  see  the  shadows  of  the  clouds  chasing 
each  other,  and  the  desert  greenness  of  the  latter  was  here 
and  there  enlivened  and  spotted  by  flocks,  just  as  the  uni- 
form purple  of  the  other  was  by  whirling  sea-birds.  A 
bank,  about  ten  feet  high,  divided  the  two  elements  ;  the 
landward  side  was  riddled  with  rabbit-holes,  and  gay  with 
heather  and  bloom ;  against  the  seaward  side  shoals  of 
shells  had  been  flung  by  the  waves,  and  a  reach  of  soft 
sand  stretched  out  to  the  edges  of  the  curling  water. 

We  stopped  at  the  door  of  the  large  solitary  house,  and 
forgot  our  discomforts  for  the  moment.  Madame  ordered 
tea,  and  we  were  all  too  hungry  not  to  wish  to  enjoy  it. 
We  stood  at  the  bay  window  of  the  upper  parlor,  where 
we  were  to  take  this  meal,  delighting  in  the  view  of  the 
sea ;  and  I  remember,  though  I  did  not  pay  much  atten- 
tion to  it  at  the  time,  that  I  heard  a  conversation  going  on 
between  the  civil  landlady  and  Madame,  by  which  it  ap- 


278  Studies  for  Stories. 

peared  that  for  that  night  the  house  was  so  extremely  full 
that  we  could  not  have  the  bedrooms  ordered  for  us  ;  and 
in  fact,  as  we  had  come  a  day  earlier  than  we  were  ex- 
pected, this  was  no  real  hardship.  Madame  said  she  sup- 
posed they  would  accommodate  us  as  well  as  possible,  and 
the  landlady  withdrew,  with  many  curtseys.  We  then 
drank  tea.  Massey  came  in,  and  said  that  unless  some  of 
the  young  ladies  slept  on  sofas  in  the  sitting-rooms,  she 
did  not  see  how  all  were  to  be  accommodated ;  she  also 
spoke  of  beds  on  the  floor.  Madame  seemed  annoyed, 
and  said  she  must  go  and  inspect  the  rooms  ;  at  the  same 
time,  she  gave  us  all  leave  to  go  out  on  to  the  shore,  which 
we  did  in  high  glee,  and  I  have  a  vivid  recollection  now  of 
that  walk,  though,  for  a  while,  I  almost  forgot  it  in  the  ex- 
citing recollection  of  the  events  that  followed  it. 


The  Stolen  Treasure.  279 


CHAPTER    VIII. 

THE    TREASURE    IN     DANGER. 

IN  consequence  of  the  crowded  state  of  the  house,  our 
boxes  had  all  been  taken  for  the  night  into  a  small 
parlor  on  the  ground-floor,  and  here  we  assembled  to  dress 
for  the  shore,  while  Massey,  after  the  manner  of  confiden- 
tial servants,  grumbled  about  the  crowd  in  the  house,  and 
at  the  notion  that  any  of  her  young  ladies  should  come  to 
this. 

"  Coming  to  this  "  meant,  sleeping  for  that  night  on  beds 
made  up  on  the  floors  of  dressing-rooms  ;  beds  having  no 
curtains,  and  not  being  decked  with  the  blue  or  pink  ro- 
settes that  so  lavishly  adorned  our  pretty  couches  at  the 
Willows.  I  must  do  us  the  justice  to  say,  that  we  were 
very  indifferent  to  the  matter,  and  were  glad  to  get  out  on 
the  shore  ;  Madame  having  given  the  httle  girls  into  the 
care  of  the  elder  ones,  and  sent  us  alone,  to  that  safest  of 
safe  places,  a  level  sea-shore  on  a  calm  and  fine  day. 

How  delightfully  fresh  was  the  feehng  of  that  evening  ! 
The  water  was  within  a  few  feet  of  the  steps  of  the  house ; 
a  very  high  tide,  we  were  told,  for  it  was  the  full  of  the 
moon.  We  walked  on  the  broad  sand-bank,  watching  the 
gambols  of  the  rabbits,  and  picking  up  shells.  The  chil- 
dren were  in  the  highest  possible  spirits.  As  usual,  httle 
May  had  been  enticed  away  from  Frances,  with  whom  she 
was  walking,  by  Caroline,  and  I  accordingly  took  her  place  ; 
Frances  and  I  walking  on  before  the  others,  for  their  some- 
what boisterous  merriment  destroyed  to  our  minds  the 
delightful  peacefulness  of  the  scene. 


28o  Studies  for  Stories. 

The  girls  descended  the  bank,  and  began  to  collect  a 
little  heap  of  shells  on  the  sand.  Frances  and  I  sat  down 
on  the  bank,  through  which  a  few  bluish  heads  of  grasses 
thrust  themselves  up.  The  sun,  now  about  to  set,  gave  a 
ruddy  edge  to  the  tiny  waves,  and  to  the  sails  of  one  soli- 
tary vessel,  whose  slow  progress  we  were  watching.  Fran- 
ces was  evidently  pleased  with  this  singular  prospect,  for 
the  level  country  on  the  landward  side  lay  stretched  before 
us,  and  all  the  splendor  of  sea-thrift,  salt  lavender,  broom, 
heath,  and  rest-harrow  pressing  up  the  bank  to  our  feet 

We  were  silently  enjoying  the  scene,  when  little  May's 
voice,  in  its  naughtiest  tone,  arrested  our  attention.  "  Let 
me  alone,  Miss  Baker  ;  I  won't,  —  I  won't." 

Frances  turned  quickly.  Caroline  had  hold  of  May's 
arm,  and  was  trying  to  hold  her  back ;  May  was  fighting, 
struggling,  and  crying  in  the  most  passionate  manner. 
When  Caroline  saw  that  we  were  observing  her,  she  let  go 
of  May,  who,  darting  to  Frances,  flung  herself  on  to  her 
lap,  sobbing,  and  sullenly  exclaiming,  "  That  she  wanted 
to  come  to  her  Miss  Chris-tiana  Frances." 

"  And  who  wants  to  prevent  you,  you  tiresome  child  ?  " 
said  Caroline,  coming  up.  "  I  am  sure  it  is  no  sinecure  to 
have  to  watch  you  :  it  is  quite  impossible  to  keep  you  out 
of  mischief." 

"  You  are  not  good,"  said  Frances  to  May ;  "  how  came 
you  to  be  so  troublesome  ? " 

"  She  will  not  keep  away  from  the  water's  edge,"  said 
Caroline ;  "  and  the  consequence  is  a  wave  came  over  her 
feet.     I  told  her  several  times  that  it  would  be  the  case." 

"  You  should  not  have  let  go  her  hand,"  said  Frances,  in 
French,  "if  you  have  no  control  over  her." 

May  sobbed  and  pouted  her  pretty  little  sulky  mouth, 
making  an  impatient  gesture,  as  if  resenting  Caroline's 
anger. 

"  You  often  said  on  other  days  that  you  would  n't  tell," 


The  Stolen  Treasure.  281 

she  exclaimed  to  Caroline  ;  "  you  said  if  I  was  naughty,  my 
Miss  Chris-tiana  Frances  should  n't  know." 

Caroline  was  very  anxious  to  stop  this  communication, 
but  was  not  in  time.  Lest  any  more  should  be  said,  she 
now  began  to  make  friends  again  with  little  May,  and  pro- 
duced some  sugar-plums  that  seemed  to  be  favorably 
received. 

"  We  must  go  home,"  said  Frances ;  "  the  child's  feet 
are  so  wet." 

"I  don't  want  to  go  home,"  rephed  the  little  girl;  "I 
want  to  get  some  more  shells." 

"  O  !  sea-water  never  gives  cold,"  rephed  Carohne  ;  and 
while  Frances  continued  to  advocate  a  return  to  the  house, 
Caroline  kept  coaxing  little  May  towards  herself  with 
many  sweet  looks  and  loving  gestures,  till  at  last  the  child 
shpped  from  Frances,  and  Caroline  ran  off  with  her,  and 
left  us  alone  once  more. 

"  Now  what  must  we  think  of  Caroline  ?  "  said  Frances 
to  me.  "  Is  it  not  wrong  of  her  to  do  all  she  can  to  make 
that  child  naughty  ?  She  has  stolen  May  away  from  me, 
not  that  she  may  possess  her,  but  that  I  may  not.  I  do 
love  that  httle  creature  ;  it  is  very  painful  to  me  to  be  de- 
prived of  her,  and  to  see  her  deteriorate  so  greatly  under 
Caroline's  rule." 

"  If  you  ask  what  I  think,"  I  answered,  with  some  heat, 
"  I  think  Caroline  is  a  thief,  and  I  have  said  so  to  her  more 
than  once." 

"Well,"  sighed  Frances,  "I  could  part  with  my  little 
treasure  with  less  pain,  if  it  was  for  her  own  good  that  she 
was  enticed  away." 

And  now  even  Caroline  said  it  was  time  to  go  in,  and 
we  set  off  for  the  house,  reaching  it  just  after  sunset.  I  do 
not  remember  the  arrangements  made  about  the  sleeping 
apartments  further  than  this,  that  either  Frances  or  Caro- 
line was  to  sleep  in  a  farm-house  about  half  a  mile  in- 
land ;  Massey  being  also  accommodated  there. 


282  Studies  for  Stories. 

"  Very  well,  then,"  said  Caroline  ;  "  I  will  keep  May  to- 
night, and  Frances  shall  go  to  the  farm-house ;  Madame, 
it  appears,  has  left  this  open  to  us."  Madame  was  then 
up  stairs  with  her  own  little  girls. 

Upon  this  a  civil  dispute  took  place  between  Caroline 
and  Frances,  both  wishing  to  have  May,  and  the  former 
also  wishing  to  escape  the  farm-house. 

Massey  observed  that  Miss  May  ought,  of  course,  to 
remain  behind,  and  she  would  take  the  liberty  of  putting 
her  to  bed  at  once.  This  could  not  be  gainsaid;  so  the 
matter  rested  between  the  two  disputants  only.  At  last 
Caroline,  as  usual,  triumphed.  She  asked  little  May, 
already  sleepy  and  laid  on  her  pillow,  which  of  them  should 
sleep  with  her ;  and  she,  overcome  by  the  coaxing  voice, 
and  dazzled  by  the  prospect  of  a  change,  said,  "  Caro- 
line." 

Poor  little  May,  and  poor  Caroline  ! 

So  Frances  set  off  to  the  farm-house  with  Massey,  and 
very  shortly  we  all  went  to  bed. 

Now  I  have  before  mentioned  a  Httle  parlor  on  the 
ground-floor  where  all  our  boxes  were  standing.  That 
was  the  bedroom  appointed  for  Miss  I'Estrange  and  me ; 
a  press-bed  had  been  introduced,  and  Madame,  having 
seen  us  both  comfortably  ensconced  therein,  left  the  room  ; 
but  presently  opened  the  door  again,  and  desired  me  to 
get  out  of  bed,  lock  the  door  inside,  and  take  out  the  key. 
I  did  so,  laying  the  key  on  the  dressing-table,  and  peeping 
out  for  a  moment  at  the  beautiful  calm  sea,  lying  still  under 
the  broad  moon.  Her  beams  had  made  a  wide,  gleaming, 
silvery  path  across  the  sea,  and  in  it  nothing  was  visible 
but  the  vessel  that  we  had  seen  during  our  walk  :  she  had 
cast  anchor,  and  her  spars  and  rigging  were  all  lighted  up 
by  the  moon. 

I  got  into  bed  again.  I  noticed  that  the  curtain  did  not 
quite  hang  straight,  for  we  could  see  the  water  as  we  lay 


The  Stolen  Treasure.  283 

awake ;  but  we  did  not  trouble  ourselves  about  that,  for 
we  were  both  sleepy,  and  in  a  very  little  time  we  were  in 
the  land  of  dreams.  ' 

I  do  not  know  how  long  I  had  been  asleep,  when  I 
dreamt  that  a  very  small  black  snake  was  sitting  on  the 
bed,  and  that  every  now  and  then  she  opened  her  mouth 
and  hissed.  It  was  a  soft  noise  :  His — s — s^his — s — s ; 
but  it  was  so  much  more  distinct  than  most  noises  heard 
in  dreams,  that  at  last  I  woke,  and  was  quite  relieved  to 
find  that  the  little  black  snake  was  not  there. 

I  felt  frightened  still,  and  feverish,  and  in  order  to  reas- 
sure myself  after  this  disturbing  dream,  I  sat  up  in  bed, 
and,  drawing  the  curtain  still  more  aside,  looked  out  upon 
the  quiet  sea.  But  such  a  sight  met  my  astonished  gaze, 
that  I  at  once  forgot  the  hissing  snake,  and  all  my  soul 
was  in  my  eyes.  The  moon  was  gone  down  ;  but  across 
the  water  lay  a  long  path  of  light,  precisely,  as  it  seemed  to 
me,  such  a  path  as  she  had  made,  only  that  this  path  was 
not  silver,  but  of  a  rosy  hue.  Beautiful,  beautiful  sight !  I 
lay  looking  at  it  Hke  one  enchanted  :  every  moment,  as  it 
seemed  to  me,  that  rosy  path  became  wider  and  ruddier. 
What  could  it  be  ?  There  were  no  northern  lights  in  the 
sky  to  cast  that  vivid  reflection,  and  the  vessel  that  lay  in 
its  midst  at  anchor  could  have  nothing  to  do  with  it :  it 
seemed  to  come  from  behind  the  house.  Certainly  it  was 
behind  me  ;  and  as  its  fitful  splendor  widened  and  quick- 
ened on  the  edges  of  the  breaking  waves,  I  was  just  about 
to  wake  Miss  L'Estrange  to  look  at  it,  when,  louder, 
clearer,  and  more  terrific  by  far  than  the  noise  that  had 
awoke  me  from  my  dream,  I  heard  the  little  black  snake 
again  :  His — s — s — his — s — s — his — s — j,  and  at  the  same 
instant,  a  light  puff  of  white  smoke  came  warm  against  my 
cheek,  and  I  sprang  from  the  bed  screaming,  "  Wake  up, 
Miss  L'Estrange,  wake,  wake  ;  the  house  is  on  fire." 

She  presently  woke,  and  for  a  few  bewildering  seconds  we 


284  Studies  for  'Stories. 

ran  helplessly  about  the  room,  then  tried  the  lock,  which, 
thanks  to  Madame's  care,  which  perhaps  saved  our  Hves, 
we  could  not  open.  We  then  rushed  to  the  window,  to 
find  the  key  ;  but  air  was  indispensable,  for  the  smoke 
sifted  in  fast  We  flung  open  the  French  window,  and 
ran  out  across  the  narrow  pavement  on  to  the  sand,  that 
we  might  breathe  freely,  and  then  we  fell  on  our  knees, 
and  looked  up  at  the  house,  crying  aloud,  to  think  of  those 
that  were  within  it.  There  we  saw  the  cause  of  the  great 
reflection  on  the  water  ;  a  high  chimney  at  the  back  of  the 
house  was  on  fire  ;  it  had,  doubtless,  already  set  fire  to  the 
beams.  The  roaring  of  the  wind  that  fed  it  was  like  thun- 
der, and  the  dancing,  joyous,  exultant  shoots  of  flame  that 
it .  sent  up,  reached  so  high  that  they  seemed  as  if  they 
would  scorch  the  very  stars.  It  was  hot  even  at  that  dis- 
tance ;  so  hot,  that  we  wondered  what  it  must  be  inside  ; 
and  like  the  troubled  remembrance  of  a  fever  dream,  I  re- 
member our  rushing  about,  flinging  stones  at  the  doors  and 
windows,  and  crying  to  Madame  and  to  our  schoolfellows 
by  their  names. 

It  could  not  have  been  many  seconds  that  we  did  this. 
A  shout  came  from  the  water  behin(3*  us,  and  turning,  we 
beheld  a  boat  full  of  sailors  ;  they  were  rowing  straight 
along  that  fearful  but  splendid  pathway  ;  they  had  come 
from  the  vessel,  and  were  within  an  oar's  length  of  the  beach. 
They  pushed  the  boat  ashore,  the  sea  was  almost  as  calm 
as  a  lake,  and  forming  two  abreast,  six  resolute-looking 
men,  they  marched  up  to  the  burning  house.  During  the 
moment  that  this  was  passing,  how  much  that  house  was 
changed  \  Every  window  was  open  :  men,  women,  and 
children,  awake  and  frantic,  were  rushing  up  and  down  in 
the  verandas,  to  find  some  means  of  descending,  and  were 
crying  and  stretching  out  their  arms,  imploring  help,  and 
declaring  that  the  staircase  was  on  fire. 

It  was  a  very  high  building,  and  the  two  upper  stories 


The  Stolen   Treasure.  285 

were  constructed  of  wood ;  each  had  a  long  veranda,  but 
the  upper  one  had  no  communication  with  the  lower,  and 
neither  wath  the  ground.  I  remember  that  these  sailors 
had  each  a  coil  of  rope  on  his  arm,  and  that  as  they  walked 
up  to  the  house  they  cheered. 

I  remained,  as  if  frozen  with  terror,  to  see  what  would 
follow ;  and  Miss  I'Estrange  sat  down  on  the  sand,  covered 
her  face  with  her  hands,  and  sobbed  out  her  sister's  name. 
A  long  low  wing  ran  out  from  one  side  of  the  house  ;  two 
of  the  sailors  were  on  its  roof  in  a  very  little  time,  and  they 
were  trying  to  fling  up  a  rope  to  the  people  above.  I  saw 
this  rope  fall  down  five  times,  and  I  heard  the  fire  roaring 
at  the  back,  and  the  sparks  crackling  down  in  cataracts. 
At  length  it  was  caught  by  a  child,  securely  tied  to  the 
verandah,  and  then,  O  frightful  sight !  I  saw  a  sailor  climb- 
ing up  it. 

Up  that  giddy  height,  sometimes  touching  a  projection 
with  his  foot,  sometimes  swinging  in  mid  air,  from  the 
length  of  the  rope  and  the  impossibihty  of  its  being  held 
stretched  by  his  comrades,  but  at  last  he  was  up  and  climb- 
ing over  the  wooden  railings.  Another  sailor  was  upon 
the  rope  ;  the  first  had  dashed  into  the  house,  which  was 
all  illuminated  from  within,  and  so  hot  that  the  papers  were 
shrinking  and  peeHng  off  the  walls,  and  the  noise  and  the 
smoke,  and  the  showers  of  burning  papers,  woven  fabrics, 
and  other  light  materials,  were  covering  us  and  the  whole 
shore,  and  hissing  in  the  water  behind.  " 

I  saw  that  first  sailor  come  out,  and  in  his  arms  a  large 
basket ;  it  seemed  to  be  a  clothes-basket ;  he  and  another 
sailor  were  tying  ropes  to  this  basket,  while  the  unfortunate 
people  were  cHnging  to  one  another,  moaning  and  lament- 
ing. Then  I  saw  a  sailor  seize  upon  a  little  child,  and'' 
begin  to  tie  it  into  this  basket ;  and  I  thought  the  frightful 
sight  of  all  my  schoolfellows,-  and  the  other  people,  sent 
fi-om  such  a  height  in  such  a  manner,  I  could  scarcely  look 


286  Studies  for  Stories. 

at  and  live.  I  turned  sick  with  fear  ;  there  was  a  dreadful 
impossibility  of  standing  still,  or  of  looking.  Where  could 
I  hide  ?  Nowhere  but  in  the  room  that  we  had  left,  and 
rather  than  see  that  terrific  sight  I  rushed  into  it. 

It  was  glowing  hot,  but  there  were  no  flames,  and  the 
smoke  of  the  burning  part  of  the  house  seemed  drawn  up 
by  the  draught  of  the  great  flames,  so  that  this  story  was 
quite  clear.  It  was  the  great  chimney  that  had  set  the 
place  on  fire  above,  and  all  the  upper  rooms  were  now 
burning,  having  been  set  alight  by  the  cataracts  of  sparks 
that  had  poured  down  the  chimneys. 

I  stood  there  an  instant,  reheved  of  my  terror,  and  then 
my  eyes  fell  on  the  boxes.  Any  kind  of  action  at  such  a 
moment  would  be  a  great  rehef ;  I  thought  I  would  push 
them  out  of  the  room,  and  tumble  them  on  to  the  sand  ; 
for  I  remembered  that  the  sufferers  above  were  only 
clothed  in  their  night  garments.  So  I  began  with  frantic 
eagerness  to  move  out  the  lightest  of  these  boxes,  and  my 
recollection  is  very  confused  of  what  followed,  though  I 
have  an  impression  that  a  sailor  and  a  woman  came  and 
helped  me  ;  also,  that  more  sailors  had  landed  from  the 
vessel,  and  that  children  with  bare  feet  were  running  about 
on  the  sand.  I  can  then  remember  being  again  on  the 
shore,  possessed  with  a  frantic  terror  of  seeing  that  bas- 
ket, but  always  occupied  ;  sometimes  tearing  the  clothing 
and  the  shoes  from  these  boxes,  and  tumbling  them  farther 
from  the  house  ;  sometimes  catching  a  screaming  child  as 
it  ran  past  me,  and  forcibly  clothing  it,  fitting  shoes  on  to 
all  sorts  of  feet,  and  dealing  out  shawls,  gowns,  and  rail- 
way wrappers  to  the  ladies.  Many  things  passed  before 
me  like  changes  in  some  frightful  vision,  hghted  up  by  a 
^re  so  bright  that  it  seemed  to  shine  not  only  upon  us,  but 
through  us ;  Caroline  was  by  me,  cut  and  bleeding  about 
the  face,  while  some  people  were  going  to  carry  her  away ; 
a  great  log  was  burning  at  my  feet ;  some  sailors  were  by 


The  Stolen  Treasure.  287 

me ;  and  while  I  was  tying  shawls  on  many  shoulders, 
tliey  were  wildly  cheering  that  every  living  soul  was  saved. 
Madame  was  by  me,  frantic  about  her  numerous  charge,' 
madly  beating  her  breast,  and  crying  after  her  children ; 
and  as  for  me,  I  had  become  cold  as  a  stone,  and  a  strange 
persuasion  began  to  get  the  better  of  me,  —  that  the  whole 
scene  was  unreal. 

Upon  this  I  said  to  myself  that  I  would  venture  to  look 
at  the  house  again ;  and  what  a  sight  it  was  when  I  did  ! 
The  whole  upper  stories  were  burning  away,  blowing  away, 
and  melting  away.  Rafters  white  as  snow  were  breaking 
off,  and  noiselessly  falling  in  flakes  all  among  us  and  over 
us.  The  sea,  the  sand,  and  the  air  were  filled  and  covered 
with  light  morsels  of  charred  wood,  paper,  chintz,  and  can- 
vas ;  burning  brands  were  jerked  out  to  the  water's  edge  ; 
some,  still  alight,  were  floating  out  to  sea  ;  and  though  not 
a  breath  of  air  stirred,  excepting  round  the  house,  the 
draft  of  the  flames  was  so  great  that  the  light  sand  blew 
along  towards  it  as  it  does  in  a  high  wind. 

Presently  there  was  a  cry  that  the  front  would  shortly 
fall,  and  all  the  people  but  our  own  party  rushed  away  to- 
wards a  boat-house  that  lay  some  roods  to  the  left. 

Two  or  three  sailors  were  persuading  Madame  to  follow, 
but  she  would  not ;  she  still  cried  that  her  children  were 
not  all  found.  I  was  uneasy,  for  I  had  not  seen  little 
May ;  but  when  I  asked  about  her,  Madame  herself  as- 
sured me  that  she  was  safe. 

I  do  not  know  what  was  the  matter  with  the  girls  ;  but 
their  excitement  was  so  great  that  they  could  not  remain 
quiet ;  one  or  two  were  almost  always  missing  among  oth^ 
er  groups,  and  some  remained  wildly  running  up  and  down 
without  any  apparent  object. 

I  heard  the  sailors  saying,  that  if  they  could  not  get  the 
children  counted  over,  they  could  not  be  sure  that  all  were 
there ;  and  then  I  heard  them  state,  that  they  would  put 


2-88  Studies  for  Stories. 

us  into  their  boat  and  push  off,  so  that  we  could  not  get 
away. 

■  I  was,  no  less  than  my  companions,  in  a  curious  state  of 
mind,  and  I  remember  laughing  aloud,  as  I  saw  the  sailors 
running  after  them,  catching  them  one  after  the  other,  and 
putting  them  into  the  said  boat,  which  they  had  left  under 
the  charge  of  one  of  their  number,  who  kept  it,  with  its 
gradually  increasing  freight,  a  few  yards  from  the  shore  ; 
it  approached  to  receive  the  passengers.  When  we  were 
all  in,  it  became  evident  to  Madame  that  none. were  miss- 
ing, excepting  poor  Caroline,  who  was  hurt,  and  had  been 
taken  to  the  farm-house  inland.  So  she  thankfully  fol- 
lowed, and  we  sat  staring  at  the  burning  house,  not  now 
more  than  half  its  former  height. 

We  were  partly  distracted  from  watching  it  by  a  strange 
circumstance  in  the  boat :  it  was  that  the  great  light  at- 
tracted innumerable  shrimps,  and  all  kinds  of  small  fish, 
and  they  kept  leaping  into  the  boat,  and  covering  us  with 
showers  of  salt  water.  We  were  engaged  in  throwing 
these  unwelcome  companions  back  into  the  water,  when  a 
great  crash  arrested  us  :  the  front  walls  fell  flat  on  to  the 
sand,  and  a  long  burning  beam  came  crashing  down  upon  the 
roof  of  the  wing  before-mentioned,  and  which  had  hitherto 
escaped  the  fire.  At  the  same  instant,  a  female  figure  was 
seen  flying  towards  us,  rushing  over  glowing  brands,  and 
leaping  across  blazing  rafters  ;  the  figure  never  stopped  but 
to  ask  some  question  of  the  sailors,  and,  guided  by  them, 
she  sped  towards  us,  fleet  as  the  wind.  Several  voices 
cried  out  that  it  was  Frances  ;  and  Frances,  indeed,  it  was. 
She  was  breathless  and  faint  with  running,  and  she 
dropped  upon  her  knees,  stretching  out  her  arms  toward 
the  boat,  and  crying  out  with  the  energy  of  despair :  "  I 
want  my  child  ;  where's  my  child  ?  give  me  my  child,  my 
child ! " 

The  horror,  the  confusion  that  followed,  it  is  hopeless  to 


The  Stolen  Treasure.  289 

attempt  describing.  All  the  giris  and  Madame  had 
thought  that  May,  as  usual,  was  with  Frances  :  she  was 
not.  She  was  still,  then,  under  the  burning  beam  in  the 
wing;  and  when  I  recovered  my  scattered  senses,  after 
hearing  this,  I  saw  Frances  stand  with  her  arms  held  out, 
and  her  hands  clenched,  and  I  heard  her  say,  "  Oh  !  oh  !  " 
and  then  she  turned  round,  and  fled  with  a  fleetness  that 
nothing  but  desperation  could  have  given  her,  straight  over 
the  sand  towards  the  burning  and  tottering  house. 


13 


29Q  Studies  for  Stories. 


CHAPTER    IX. 

THE    TREASURE    IS    SAVED. 

THE  remark  is  common,  that  there  are  some  moments 
which  gather  into  themselves  the  feehngs  and  the 
consequences  that  in  ordinary  times  are  scattered  over 
weeks  and  years  ;  such  were  the  moments  that  followed, 
while  the  burning  house  sent  up  its  volumes  of  smoke  and 
flame  ;  while  the  still  water,  just  then  at  its  lowest,  washed 
softly  against  the  brink  of  that  now  broad  reach  of  sand, 
and  yet  glowed  with  that  superb  but  terrible  pathway; 
while  we  sat  mute  with  terror  and  amaze ;  and  while 
Frances  fled  fleetly  away  from  us  among  the  smouldering 
brands. 

It  had  cost  our  sailor  but  little  effort  hitherto  to  keep 
his  boat  almost  stationary ;  for  there  was  no  air,  and  no 
sea  on.  He  now,  as  well  as  ourselves,  sat  gazing  with 
stunned  and  helpless  wonder  while  Frances  rushed  away 
on  her  perilous  errand ;  but  suddenly  starting,  when,  as  I 
suppose,  he  found  the  tide  had  turned,  and  that  we  were 
drifting  in,  he  gave  a  few  vigorous  strokes  with  his  oars  as 
he  began  to  feel  the  pebbles  grating  under  us.  "  Now, 
ladies,"  he  said,  in  an  excited  tone,  "  I  see  what  the  poor 
young  thing  is  going  to  do.  Mind  yourselves  ;  for  run 
after  I  must  and  will."  And  so  saying,  he  sprang  ashore, 
and  flew  after  Frances  with  a  vehemence  and  vigor  that, 
far  as  he  was  behind,  almost  made  me  hope  that  he  would 
catch  her. 

But  now  came  again  that  "confusion  worse  confounded." 
The  boat-load  was  once  more  loose  on  the  sand,  and  I 


The  Stolen  Treasure.  291 

alone  was  still  sitting  in  it ;  the  French  girls  were  all  run- 
ning about  wringing  their  hands  ;  the  English  girls  were 
helplessly  crying,  and  clinging  about  Madame,  now  calling 
on  her  to  get  Frances  back,  and  now  to  save  May ;  Mad- 
ame herself  was  bewildered  under  this  great  misfortune, 
not  doing  and  not  attempting  to  do  anything;  for  what, 
indeed,  could  she  do  but  hft  up  her  trembling  hands  to 
heaven  and  pray,  and  think,  with  distracted  brain  and 
agonized  heart,  of  the  great  danger  of  one  pupil  and  the 
almost  hopeless  danger  of  the  other  ? 

And  I,  as  I  sat  alone  in  the  boat,  which  was  gently 
rocked  against  the  beach  with  every  return  of  the  wave, 
saw  the  sailor's  deep  footmarks  on  the  sand, -and  that 
every  footmark  was  full  of  sea-water,  and  every  drop  of 
that  water  roseate  with  the  bloom  of  fire-light,  either  from 
the  ruin  or  from  the  sky.  In  accounts  of  all  events  that 
greatly  excite  people,  we  find  that  their  own  feehngs  and 
impressions  are  mixed  with  the  narrative :  mine  must  be 
also,  for  they  seemed  more  real  to  me  than  external 
things  ;  and,  in  spite  of  my  despair,  I  did  look  down  into 
those  tiny  pools,  and  I  did  observe  the  rosy  tinges  of  the 
breaking  waves  and  the  rosy  drops  that  fell  fi-om  the  now 
drifting  oars,  and  I  did  say  to  myself,  how  very  beautiful 
they  were  !  But  there  is  also  in  my  mind  a  vivid  picture 
of  the  scene.  I  was  ordered  by  Madame  to  get  out  of  the 
boat,  and  I  managed  to  obey  her.  I  see  her  still  standing 
passive  and  stunned,  —  the  girls  rushing,  and  hysterically 
crying  around  her,  —  the  sailors  and  people  about  the  burn- 
ing house,  flinging  water  as  well  as  they  could  on  the  low 
roof  of  the  wing,  which  was  rapidly  catching  fire,  and 
every  moment  forcing  them  back  and  back,  —  and  Frances, 
unnoticed  by  any  of  them,  flying  on  to  almost  certain 
death,  and,  if  possible,  urged  to  still  greater  swiftness  by 
the  sound  of  the  sailor's  footsteps  behind  her. 

She  was  near  —  she  was  nearer ;  I  cried  out,  as  if  my 


292  Sttidies  for  Stories. 

one  childish  voice  could  be  heard  so  far  away,  beseeching 
the  people  to  see  her,  to  know  what  she  was  about  to  do, 
and  to  arrest  her  reckless  steps.  My  heart  sank,  —  I  shut 
my  eyes  for  a  moment,  —  then  I  opened  them,  and  saw 
her  at  the  end  of  the  wing,  running  up  an  outer  staircase 
that  connected  its  veranda  with  the  sands. 

A  great  wreath  of  smoke  came  down  over  her  and  hid 
her.  The  sailor  was  close  at  her  heels.  She  emerged 
from  the  smoke,  and  still  pressed  on  ;  she  reached  a  win- 
dow, and  such  was  the  vividness  of  the  light,  that  even  at 
that  distance  I  distinctly  saw  her  fling  her  shawl  over  her 
hand,  and  then  dash  it  through  the  glass.  That  was  the 
last  thing  I  did  see  :  another  great  volume  of  steam  from 
the  water  that  they  were  sending  up  from  below  spread 
swiftly  over  her,  and,  when  it  melted  away  into  the  glowing 
air,  she  and  the  sailor  had  disappeared. 

Next  I  saw  a  great  confusion  among  the  people  below, 
and  there  was  fast  shouting,  screaming,  and  rushing  up 
and  down.  Several  more  people  were  upon  the  -veranda, 
and,  owing  to  a  momentary  stoppage  in  casting  water  up, 
the  flames  were  covering  the  roof,  and  sweeping  and 
swooping  down  almost  to  the  ground.  The  place  was,  in 
short,  enveloped  in  the  flames,  and  the  people  were  forced 
back.  The  wind  caused  by  the  fire  tossed  up  the  blue 
and  red  spires  with  a  dancing,  exulting  motion  ;  the  very 
walls  seemed  to  be  shaken,  and  to  rock  as  the  fiery  ser- 
pents hissed  and  sang.  There  was  a  noise  again  of  rend- 
ing and  sphtting ;  the  wind  tossed  and  whirled  out  the 
blazing  curtains  and  the  burning  papers,  and  flung  on  to 
the  sands  rafters  that  scattered  millions  of  sparks  as  they 
fell,  and  covered  the  sands  like  a  nation  of  fireflies.  And 
now  we  all,  as  by  one  impulse,  began  to  run  nearer  ;  and 
my  mind,  as  I  remember,  was  so  completely  overwrought, 
and  so  much  off  its  balance,  that  I  was  unable  to  think 
what  might  be  going  on  within  that  burning  ruin  ;  but  was 


The  Stolen   Treasure.  293 

only  occupied  with  watching  and  following  the  footprints 
that  Frances  had  left  in  the  sand,  and  with  observing  the 
streaks  of  yellow  that  began  to  appear  in  the  east.  That 
Frances  and  little  May  were  both  dead  I  did  not  doubt ; 
and  in  my  bewildered  thoughts  I  wondered  whether  their 
souls  were  then  going  up  across  the  ridges  of  those  clouds 
in  the  golden  dawn. 

But  we  also  had  drawn  near,  and  the  flush  of  that  great 
heat  was  on  our  faces,  shining  in  our  eyes,  and  the  wind 
of  it  was  wafting  our  garments,  and  the  thunder  of  it  was 
stunning  our  ears,  and  shaking  the  ground  under  our  feet. 
I  cannot  say  that  I  remember  it  all,  though  I  have  im- 
pressions of  .some  things  which  followed,  —  impressions 
which  detach  themselves  by  reflection  from  the  terror,  and 
the  shouting,  and  storming,  and  warning  cries,  and  heavy 
footsteps,  and  frantic  flinging  up  of  water  by  the  men  about 
the  flames. 

First,  I  remember  that  I  strained  my  eyes  ;  but  smoke . 
and  flame  so  obscured  the  wooden  wing,  that  I  distin- 
guished but  little  ;  the  fire  was  fringing  the  edges  of 
every  overlapping  board  ;  but,  after  helplessly  gazing  (as  it 
seemed)  a  long  time,  I  had  a  momentary  vision  of  a  roof, 
and  it  was  breaking  in,  and  tiles  were  falling  thick  and  fast 
upon  a  bed  inside  ;  for  some  of  the  walls  were  gone,  and 
there  was  a  black  gap  behind,  and  the  bed  for  an  instant 
seemed  to  be  seized  and  shaken  by  the  fire,  and  in  less 
than  a  minute  it  was  burnt  and  shrivelled  up  with  all  its 
ample  curtains,  and  the  floor  had  given  way,  and  the  bed 
had  gone  down.  That  bed  had  been  decked  with  curtains 
covered  with  drooping  poppies.  Little  May  had  been 
coaxed  to  sleep  in  it,  partly  on  the  plea  that  they  were  so 
pretty.     Where  was  she  now  1 

I  did  not  move,  but  kept  staring  up  at  the  devouring 
flames,  as  they  flung  themselves  at  the  cool  pale  sky,  with 
a  wild,  mad  kind  of  frolic. 


294  Studies  for  Stories, 

Ages  and  ages  seemed  to  follow,  then  the  people  said 
that  all  was  over ;  but  at  length  a  shout  rose  from  the 
crowd,  —  there  was  a  rushing  to  the  old  black  ruin  of  the 
centre  ;  then  came  sudden  silence,  followed  by  a  long  au- 
dible groan.  I  turned  my  face  from  the  red  fire,  and  found 
myself  left  behind,  and  I  dragged  my  unwilling  limbs  on- 
ward, talking  all  the  time  aloud  to  myself,  till  I  came  in 
front  of  the  central  ruin,  and  there,  cUmbing  down  the  out- 
side of  a  stack  of  chimneys  by  a  few  projecting  spars,  I 
saw  the  sailor,  and  he  was  alone. 

I  say  the  sailor,  because  we  knew  that  it  could  be  none 
other  than  he  :  but  he  was  so  completely  blackened  by 
smoke  as  to  be  quite  undistinguishable  by  dress  or  feature. 
I  said  to  myself  that  I  had  known,  when  he  came  out,  he 
must  be  alone,  and  though  I  stood  in  the  throng  I  cannot 
recollect  the  actions  of  those  about  me  during  the  wretched 
quarter  of  an  hour  while  he  slowly  clambered  down.  I 
have  only  an  impression  that  now  and  then  the  people 
cheered  in  order  to  encourage  him,  and  I  suppose  all  were 
too  much  excited  to  remember  what  followed,  for  I  have 
never  been  able  to  get  an  account  of  it  from  any  olie. 

But  the  next  thing  that  I  do  remember  distinctly  is,  that 
it  was  quite  light,  and  the  sailor  was  standing  among  us, 
and  the  flames  had  suddenly  died  down.  I  also  noticed 
that  many  of  the  men,  whose  figures  had  been  seen  about 
all  night,  were  countrymen,  who  had  come,  doubtless,  from 
the  villages  round.  These  all  had  gathered  about  the  sailor, 
who,  faint,  weak,  and  panting,  was  moistening  his  burnt 
lips  with  something  in  a  cup.  "  Now,  then,  speak  to  the 
Madame,  speak  to  the  Madame,"  I  heard  one  of  the  sail- 
ors saying ;  and  instead  of  eagerly  wondering  what  the 
man  would  reply,  a  forlorn  reflection  strayed  into  my  mind, 
that  I  had  heard  them  address  her  as  "  the  Madame  "  be- 
fore. 

But  the  man's  speech,  when  he  found  breath  to  reply, 


71ie  Stolen   Treasure.  295 

cleared  away  the  cloud  that  obscured  my  brain,  and  I 
awoke  at  once  to  life  and  consciousness. 

''  I  tell'e  marm,"  he  said  hoarsely  and  faintly,  "  the  young 
lady  be  alive  now,  and  I  expect  the  little  one  may  come  to 
her  senses  again  ;  but  how  they  are  to  be  got  .down  alive 
from  the  place  where  they  are,  God  only  knows." 

"  Then  where  were  they  ?  "  cried  the  crowd. 

The  sailor  looked  up  to  where  a  solitary  pile  of  chimneys 
reared  its  blackened  outhne.  There  was  an  immediate  and 
simultaneous  rush  round  the  ruins  of  the  house  ;  and  far 
up  on  a  projecting  platform,  only  a  few  feet  wide,  and  ap- 
parently forty  feet  high,  sat  Frances,  with  something  in  her 
arms.  This  little  platform  seemed  to  be  the  remains  of 
some  floor,  which  had  been  burnt  not  quite  up  to  the  chim- 
neys ;  but  how  long  it  would  stand  was  the  question,  and 
how  long  it  would  be  before  those  crumbhng  chimneys 
came  down. 

It  was  now  probably  about  two  hours  since  the  fire  had 
first  broken  out,  and  it  might  be  somewhat  past  four 
o'clock.  No  engines  had  arrived,  which  was  not  wonder- 
ful, as  the  nearest  were  twelve  miles  off;  but  the  sailors 
(who  had  been  hitherto  the  saving  of  every  person  in  the 
house),  though  their  exertions  had  manifestly  tired  them 
greatly,  and  some  were  bruised  and  scorched,  no  sooner 
perceived  Frances  sitting  on  the  projecting  height,  than 
they  gathered  together,  and  gave  a  deep  hearty  cheer  by 
way  of  reassuring  her,  and  then  ran  here  and  there  in 
search  of  ropes  and  beams,  intending  to  attempt  a  rescue. 
As  I  was  eagerly  watching  their  efforts  at  making  a  scaf- 
fold, somebody  cried  out  that  "  the  Madame  had  fainted," 
and  the  attention  of  the  unoccupied  persons  being  thus 
attracted  to  her  and  to  us,  they  carried  Madame  into  an 
outhouse,  which  had  been  used  as  an  extra  carriage-house. 
There  they  obliged  us  all  to  follow,  and  then  shut  us  in, 
bringing  us  wine  and  bread,  and  positively  keeping  sentry 


296  Studies  for  Stories. 

at  the  door.  I  cannot  wonder  that  they  did  this,  for  the 
whole  precincts  of  the  house  were  highly  dangerous  ;  red- 
hot  tiles  strewed  the  neighborhood  of  the  wing,  and  though 
the  fire  had  burnt  itself  out,  the  sand  and  the  remaining 
walls  flung  fierce  heat  against  us,  and  the  water  lying  in 
pools  as  it  had  come  down  after  being  tossed  in  buckets 
on  the  fire,  was  quite  hot,  and  still  steamed.  The  sun  was 
just  rising  as  we  were  shut  into  the  carriage-house,  and 
we  were  very  miserable  through  suspense  ;  but  we  had  not 
long  to  wait  for  tidings  of  our  schoolfellows.  Madame 
had  not  recovered  many  minutes  from  her  fainting  fit,  and 
began  to  sit  up  and  collect  her  thoughts,  when  we  heard 
tremendous  and  repeated  cheers,  then  a  rushing  of  many 
feet  towards  our  asylum ;  and  at  last  the  door  was  vio- 
lently flung  open,  and  in  ran  Frances  with   May  in  her 


The  Stolen  Treasure.  297 


CHAPTER    X. 


CONCLUSION. 


WE  all  started  up  at  sight  of  the  rescued  ones,  and 
rushed  round  Frances  ;  a  sort  of  silent  rapture 
held  our  hps  sealed  ;  for  a  while  we  could  not  believe  she 
was  uninjured,  and  we  pressed  closely  about  her,  touching 
her  singed  and  tinderlike  gown,  her  disordered  hair,  her 
flushed  hot  feverish  cheeks,  and  her  deHcate  hands,  that 
grasped  May  so  closely.  As  for  her,  she  said  not  a  word, 
but  held  out  the  child  ;  and  a  long,  low  laugh  of  rapturous 
relief  burst  from  her  lips,  but  she  neither  shed  tears  nor 
stirred  till  Madame  took  May  from  her,  and  kissed  her, 
exclaiming,  in  her  native  language,  "  O  my  God,  I  do  thank 
thee."  Here  Frances  laughed  again,  and  cried  a  little,  but 
still  she  did  not  speak. 

Poor  little  May,  how  piteously  she  was  crying,  and  how 
her  tiny  limbs  trembled  and  shivered  !  Her  small  hands 
were  a  little  scorched,  and  her  night-dress  in  some  places 
burnt  brown  ;  she  did  not  seem  to  be  seriously  injured,  but 
her  terror  was  still  extreme. 

In  spite  of  the  anguish  and  anxiety  that  we  had  suffered 
about  Frances,  our  demonstrations  of  joy  at  sight  of  her 
were,  after  the  first  moment  of  her  entrance,  by  no  means 
violent  or  noisy.  We  were  all  beginning  to  feel  the  peev- 
ish exhaustion  of  excessive  fatigue.  Some  of  the  young 
^1  girls  crept  into  the  empty  carriages  that  stood  in  this 
asylum  of  ours,  and  dozed  upon  the  seats  ;  others  lay 
down  upon  a  heap  of  clean  shavings  ;  a  carpet  was  brought 
in  for  May  and  Frances,  —  one  of  the  few  things  that  had 
13* 


298  Studies  for  Stories, 

been  saved 

about  from  one  of  us  to  the  other,  giving  us  wine  (almost 
like  mulled  wine,  it  was  so  hot)  from  black  bottles,  and 
serving  it  in  a  little  tin  cup.  After  this  acceptable  refresh- 
ment, Madame  herself  very  soon  fell  asleep,  and  most  of 
her  pupils  with  her.  I  could  not  sleep  at  first,  as  the  sound 
of  the  crackling  fire  still  sung  in  my  ears. 

It  was  now  broad  daylight,  and  the  watery,  white  sky 
was  distinctly  visible  through  a  small,  dirty  window,  ex- 
cepting when  a  sailor,  leaning  his  weary  arms  upon  the 
sill,  would  indulge  in  a  contemplation  of  the  people  whom 
he  had  helped  to  save.  Many  sailors  appeared  in  this  way, 
one  after  the  other,  and  seemed  specially  to  derive  satis- 
faction from  staring  at  Frances  and  her  tiny  charge  ;  and 
it  sometimes  pains  me,  even  to  this  day,  to  think  that  we 
never  had  an  opportunity  of  thanking  them  ;  for  when  we 
awoke  at  last,  and  inquired  about  them,  the  vessel  was 
gone.  The  sailors,  we  were  told,  had  said  they  could  not 
stay,  for  a  breeze  had  sprung  up,  and  "  The  Lively  Sail " 
must  proceed  on  her  voyage. 

"  The  Lively  Sail !  "  What  a  name  !  Some  of  the  girls 
were  quite  shocked,  and  in  writing  to  their  friends  called 
the  vessel  "  The  Lively  Sarah."  A  very  handsome  present 
was  made  to  these  brave  men  by  the  parents  of  those  whom 
they  had  rescued ;  but  I  am  often  sorry  to  think  that  they 
had  not  our  thanks  also. 

This,  however,  is  anticipating. 

About  nine  o'clock  in  the  morning  we  all  awoke,  very 
much  refreshed  ;  some  water  was  brought  us  ;  and  from 
the  contents  of  the  trunks,  which  still  strewed  the  sand, 
we  were  all  made,  with  Massey's  aid,  exceedingly  neat  and 
clean.  Frances  seemed  scarcely  more  fatigued  than  our- 
selves ;  but  if  any  question  was  asked  her  about  the  res- 
cue, would  answer  with  a  shudder,  "  O  !  don't  speak  to  me 
about  that ;  it  makes  my  head  swim  to  think  of  it." 


The  Stolen   Treasure.  299 

We  now  issued  from  the  carriage-house.  The  fire  was 
nearly  out,  —  only  smouldering.  The  hotel  was  almost 
level  with  the  ground,  and  none  but  its  disconsolate  owners 
lingered  about  it.  Engines  had  arrived,  and  had  deluged 
the  place  when  the  flames  were  already  dying  down.  But 
we  did  not  stay  to  look  about  us.  Madame  was  naturally 
anxious  to  see  Caroline,  who  had  been  taken  to  the  farm- 
house, where  Frances  had,  earlier  in  the  evening,  been 
sent  to  sleep. 

We  hoped  also  to  find  breakfast  there,  and  were  told 
that  all  the  other  people,  who  had  been  sleeping  at  the 
hotel  when  it  took  fire,  had  left  the  hospitable  farm  already, 
in  different  conveyances,  having  been  received  there  in  the 
night,  and  treated  with  the  greatest  kindness  and  con- 
sideration. 

We  walked  across  the  fields  to  this  place  ;  and  the  smil- 
ing mistress  met  us  at  her  door,  all  fresh,  and  clean,  and 
cheerful,  though  she  had  been  up  nearly  all  night.  She 
had  set  out  breakfast  for  us  in  her  large  kitchen,  and  she 
now  invited  us  in,  at  the  same  time  assuring  us  that  the 
young  lady  up  stairs  was  not  very  much  hurt.  Of  course, 
Madame  went  up  instantly  to  the  chamber,  and  there  her 
own  maid  was  waiting  on  Caroline. 

Her  injury  was  a  long,  severe  cut  across  the  brow, 
reaching  from  the  parting  of  the  hair  to  the  corner  of 
the  right  eyebrow.  It  was  by  no  means  dangerous  ;  but, 
alas  !  it  was  most  evident  that  it  must  leave  a  mark  for 
life. 

Several  of  us  —  I  among  them  —  crept  up  the  stairs  after 
Madame  ;  and  though  forbidden  to  enter  the  room,  list- 
ened to  what  might  be  going  on  inside. 

Caroline  was  in  a  highly  excited  state  ;  a  surgeon  had 
been  sent  for  to  attend  her,  and  had  ordered  her  to  lie 
quietly  in  bed.  The  moment  Madame  entered,  she  at  once 
declared  that  she  was  sure  her  face  would  be    marked. 


300  Studies  for  Stories. 

Madame  had  all  the  sweetly  compassionate  manner  of  an 
amiable  Frenchwoman,  and  she  soothed  Caroline  with 
hopes  to  the  contrary,  asked  if  she  would  like  one  of  her 
schoolfellows  to  come  and  sit  with  her,  and  told  her  that  we 
were  all  safe  ;  in  fact,  the  great  blessings  of  hfe  and  safety 
for  all  her  large  party  did  somewhat  make  it  impossible,  for 
the  present,  that  she  could  feel  much  for  Carohne's  misfor- 
tunes. Not  a  question  had  been  asked,  and  so  little  in- 
terest shown  by  Caroline,  that  we  all  thought,  judging  by 
this,  and  by  the  tone  of  her  voice,  that  she  was  probably  a 
little  delirious. 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  when  Madame  again  asked  if  she  would 
like  one  of  her  schoolfellows  to  sit  beside  her.  "  Yes  ;  she 
should  Hke  one  of  them,  but  not  Sophia,  —  Sophia  would 
say  she  deserved  it." 

"  No,"  said  Madame,  soothingly,  "  they  are  all  ex- 
tremely sorry,  my  child,  —  very  much  grieved  indeed,  my 
dear,"  —  and  Madame  showed  a  good  deal  of  alarm  at  the 
speech,  for,  in  fact,  not  understanding  it,  she  thought  Caro- 
line quite  light-headed.  • 

^'  Not  Sophia,"  repeated  Caroline,  tossing  on  her  pillow; 
"  I  know  I  DID  steal  little  May ;  I  know  I  am  branded  for 
a  thief,  and  she  will  think  so." 

On  hearing  this  I  fled  down  the  stairs,  wringing  nty 
hands  and  crying  with  a  sort  of  hysterical  violence,  no 
doubt  partly  owing  to  my  late  excitement :  it  was  some 
time  before  I  recovered  my  senses :  when  I  did  so  I 
found  that  the  woman  of  the  house  was  holding  me  on 
her  knees,  in  a  pleasant  arbor  out  of  doors,  and  that  an 
old  gentleman,  with  a  most  pleasant  face,  was  standing  be- 
fore her. 

"  Why,  here  's  the  Vicar,  little  Miss,"  said  my  good 
nurse. 

"  Ay,  ay,"  said  the  old  gentleman,  "  don't  cry,  my  pretty 
little  bird, — here  are  some  nice  gillyflowers  to  smell,  and 


The  Stolen   Treasure.  301 

here  is  some  cold  water  to  drink.  Wliat !  not  one  hurt  in 
the  fire  !  what  a  good  God  is  ours  ;  and  how  thankful  you 
should  be  for  such  a  merciful  preservation  !  " 

He  looked  so  very  old,  and  so  venerable,  that  I  gazed 
at  him  with  pleasure  and  curiosity,  sobbing  out,  "I  do 
feel  thankful,  sir,  —  indeed  I  do."  His  house  was  about 
four  miles  from  the  sea,  close  to  the  church,  for  it  was  a 
very  large,  thinly-populated  parish,  partly  warren,  and  partly 
salt  marshes. 

"  Please  to  sit  down,  sir,"  said  the  woman,  wiping  the 
seat  of  the  arbor  with  my  handkerchief,  and  still  holding 
me  in  her  arms  ;  "  and  I  hope  you  '11  have  some  breakfast 
afore  you  go." 

"  Ay,  ay,"  the  old  clergyman  repUed,  sitting  down  beside 
us.  "  I  'm  a  great  age  now,  Mrs.  Peel,  —  almost  past  my 
work,  —  my  Master's  work." 

"  O  no,  sir  !  not  yet,"  replied  the  woman. 

"  Not  quite  yet.  I  must  talk  with  these  dear  children 
before  I  go ;  and  I  shall  hope  to  pray  with  them  and  the 
French  lady." 

"  Yes,  sir  ;  that 's  what  they  want ;  you  '11  make  'em  feel 
quieter  like  ;  for  now  they  are  all  of  a  tremble." 

I  felt  better,  and  we  went  into  the  house  ;  but  I  was  not 
allowed  to  stay  down  stairs,  and  hear  the  delightful  con- 
versation and  devout  prayers  of  the  aged  clergyman.  I 
was  taken  up  stairs  and  put  to  bed.  Some  breakfast  was 
given  me  while  there,  and  I  soon  fell  into  a  deep,  dream- 
less sleep,  fi-om  which  I  did  not  awake  for  hours. 

When  at  last  I  did  open  my  eyes,  they  fell  upon  a  bed, 
for  there  were  two  in  the  room.  Frances  and  May  were 
lying  asleep  in  this  bed,  and  beside  it  stood  a  tall  and  most 
elegant  lady,  —  a  lady  in  a  rich,  rusthng  silk  dress,  and 
with  a  long  Indian  chain  round  her  neck,  which  rested  on 
the  quilt  as  she  bent  over  little  May.  She  stood  with  her 
back  to  me;  but  a  round,  old-fashioned  mirror  hung  on 


302  Studies  for  Stories. 

the  whitewashed  wall  before  her,  and  in  it  I  saw  her  face, 
and  recognized  it,  though  now  it  was  changed,  and  illumi- 
nated by  a  kind  of  unbelieving  joy,  and  though  her  eyes 
were  overflowing  with  happy  tears. 

It  was  little  May's  mamma. 

Every  now  and  then  she  would  venture  to  lift  up  the 
child's  hand  and  touch  it  with  her  lips,  but  she  seemed  very 
much  afraid  of  waking  her  and  Frances  ;  and,  but  for  this 
little  action,  stood  motionless  beside  them  for  some  time. 

I  knew  that  for  several  days  she  had  been  constantly 
expected,  and  that  she  possessed  Madame's  intended  ad- 
dress at  the  seaside,  and  I  thought  what  a  happy  thing  it 
was  she  had  not  arrived  a  few  hours  sooner. 

At  last  the  mother's  kisses  becoming  unconsciously  more 
fervent,  little  May  awoke  ;  upon  which,  forgetting  her  cau- 
tion, she  threw  her  arms  upon  the  bed,  and  stooping  over 
the  child,  exclaimed,  with  a  laugh  of  exulting  joy,  "  Who 
am  I,  May?  tell  me." 

"  Mamma  ! "  exclaimed  the  child,  after  a  momentary 
pause,  and  continued  to  gaze  at  her  with  a  sort  of  ecstasy, 
softly  repeating  to  herself,  "  Mamma,  mamma  !  "  But 
when  her  mother  tried  to  take  her  up,  she  said,  in  a  con- 
fidential tone,  "  Mamma,  you  must  n't  wake  my  Miss 
Chris-tiana  Frances." 

On  hearing  the  little  silvery  voice  repeating  this  already 
beloved  name,  and  bringing  so  vividly  to  her  recollection 
the  peril  that  her  child  had  just  encountered,  the  mother 
burst  into  a  sudden  passion  of  tears,  which  woke  Frances, 
who  started  up  in  a  fright,  uttering  some  confused  words 
about  the  smoke,  and  the  sea,  and  little  May. 

Finding  herself  kissed,  blessed,  and  wept  over  by  this 
beautiful  stranger,  was  not  likely  to  reassure  her,  and  she 
did  not  recover  from  her  bewilderment,  till  May  cried  out, 
"  Mamma,  mamma,  you  don't  know  what  a  great  hole  was 
burnt  in  my  bed  last  night !  " 


The  Stolen   Treasure.  303 

On  hearing  this,  Frances  instantly  perceived  who  it  was 
that  was  embracing  her  with  such  fervent  expressions  of 
gratitude  and  love,  and  she  gave  May  to  her  mother,  for 
on  first  awakening  she  had  snatched  her  up  in  her  arms. 

May,  who  before  being  laid  in  the  bed  had  evidently 
been  carefully  washed,  and  dressed  in  a  clean  embroidered 
frock,  looked  particularly  pretty,  though  her  tiny  hands 
were  still  very  red  from  the  heat  of  the  flames.  Frances 
herself  was  also  seen  under  favorable  circumstances  ;  she 
was  dressed  in  a  delicate  hlac  muslin  gown,  and  her  fair 
hair  was  nicely  braided.  I  was  glad  that  Lady  Merton 
had  not  seen  them  during  their  former  sleep  in  the  car- 
riage-house, for  then  they  had  looked  like  two"  sweeps.  I 
was  also  glad  that  I  was  neatly  dressed  myself,  for  in  a 
very  few  minutes  May's  tall  stately  father  stalked  in, 
snatched  the  child,  and  bestowed  on  her  a  storm  of  kisses 
that  resounded  through  the  room.  He  then  turned  to 
Frances,  who,  with  his  wife's  arm  still  round  her,  was  sit- 
.  ting  up  on  the  bed,  as  on  a  dais.  She  had  thrown  back 
the  quilt,  and  was  gazing  at  him,  half  pleased  and  half 
surprised.  Lady  Merton  took  her  hand,  and  putting  it 
into  her  husband's,  he  kissed  it,  and  straightway  began  to 
make  a  vehement  incoherent  speech  about  his  gratitude, 
his  thankfulness,  what  he  should  have  done  if  coming 
home  he  had  found  his  little  one  burnt  to  death,  what  his 
wife  would  have  felt,  etc.,  etc.  But  at  a  certain  point  in  it, 
appearing  to  feel  rather  a  choking  sensation,  he  marched 
to  the  window,  and  then  having  sobbed  two  or  three  times, 
and  called  himself  a  fool- quite' audibly,  he  blew  his  nose 
violently,  and  came  back  as  well  as  ever. 

After  this,  to  my  rehef,  they  all  left  the  room. 

And  now  I  must  go  back  in  my  narrative,  and  explain 
some  circumstances,  which  did  not  come  to  my  knowledge 
for  some  time  afterwards. 

It  appears  that  some  minutes  before  I  awoke,  and  saw 


304  Studies  for  Stories. 

that  strange  light  on  the  sea,  Caroline  was  also  startled  by 
a  peculiar  noise,  and  being  frightened,  jumped  out  of  bed, 
put  on  her  dressing-gown  and  slippers,  and  looked  out  into 
the  passage.  As  I  have  before  said,  she  was  in  the  wing 
of  the  house  with  Httle  May ;  but  May,  it  appears,  in  her 
hurry  and  confusion,  she  did  not  think  of 

According  to  her  own  account,  she  saw  nothing,  but 
thinks  that  she  returned  to  her  own  room,  and  then  beheld 
that  ruby  light  gleaming  between  the  curtains  on  the 
water  ;  and  ran  out  of  the  room,  wishing  to  find  Madame, 
for  she  was  sure  something  was  the  matter.  She  ran  to 
the  great  staircase  of  the  house,  and  saw  lights  glowing 
under  the  boards  ;  puffs  of  smoke  seemed  to  pursue  her  ; 
and  being  frightened,  she  fled  before  them  up  to  the  very 
top  of  the  house,  trying  the  locked  doors,  and  crying, 
"  Madame,  madame  !  "  Then,  too  much  alarmed  to  know 
what  she  did,  she  tried  to  run  down  again  ;  but  fire  was  now 
visible  below.  She  set  her  foot  upon  a  board  in  her  ra^Id 
descent ;  it  gave  way ;  flames  spurted  up,  and  the  end  of 
the  board  struck  her  on  the  brow,  and  she  fell  down  a  short 
flight  of  stairs.  Recovering  almost  instantly,  she  sprang 
down  stairs,  and  found  herself  among  a  crowd  of  people, 
all  rushing  to  the  great  front  drawing-room,  and  in  her 
fright,  confusion,  danger,  and  pain,  she  never  thought  of 
the  child. 

She  was  saved  like  the  other  people,  and  did  not  know 
how  much  she  was  hurt,  till  she  found  herself  safe  on  the 
sands.  She  was  taken  to  the  farm,  and  there  Frances, 
already  roused  and  dressfed,  met  her,  frantic  to  know  what 
had  become  of  May,  and  she  said  she  did  not  know. 

Little  May's  account  was,  that  she  woke  in  the  night, 
and  found  the  room  full  of  smoke  that  almost  choked  her  ; 
that  Miss  Baker  was  not  there,  and  then  she  cried  as 
loudly  as  she  could,  and  called  her  Miss  Chris-tiana 
Frances  a  great  many  times  ;  and  she  heard  "  some  wicked 


The  Stolen   Treasu7'e.  305 

men  shouting  outside  ;  "  so  she  got  up  and  crept  under  the 
bed  to  hide  herself,  —  a  thing  she  was  in  the  habit  of  doing 
when  it  thundered,  or  she  was  otherwise  frightened.  This 
providential  habit  saved  her  life.  She  was  almost  suffo- 
cated when  Frances  rescued  her,  finding  out  her  hiding- 
place  by  the  gasping  noise  she  made. 

Frances  and  the  sailor,  dragging  May  between  them, 
crept  on  their  hands  and  knees  along  the  passage  to  the 
house,  for  the  flames  pursued  them,  and  prevented  their  re- 
turn to  the  now  burning  veranda.  Then  they  attained  a 
room  which  had  a  servant's  ladder-stair  in  it,  and  were 
compelled  still  to  ascend,  the  fire  seeming  to  force  them 
up,  and  closing  behind.  They  got  up  on  a  higher  floor,  of 
which  little  was  left  but  the  platform  before  mentioned, 
and  they  had  not  stood  there  long,  recovering  strength  and 
breath,  when  the  stairs  and  the  room  they  had  come  through 
fell  in,  and  in  that  dim  light  of  gray  morning,  though  now 
sitting  in  the  open  air,  they  were  not  observed  from  below, 
the  noises  being  still  so  great,  that  they  vainly  tried  to 
make  themselves  heard. 

The  sailor  then  finding  that  in  that  distraction  of  fear, 
that  confusion  of  voices,  and  crackling  of  flames,  his*signals 
and  shouting  were  of  no  avail,  and  seeing  that  they  were 
not  likely  to  be  looked  for  in  the  right  place,  resolved  to 
attempt  a  descent.  How  he  accomplished  it  we  never 
heard.  I  suppose  it  must  have  been  dreadful  to  see  him 
doing  it,  for  Frances  never  could  be  induced  to  describe  it 
but  once,  and  then  she  burst  into  tears,  and  turned  so  faint 
and  sick  that  Madame  desired  she  never  might  be  ques- 
tioned about  it  again. 

A  bewildering  day  or  two  followed  in  the  old  farm-house. 
CaroHne  was  still  poorly  ;  but  her  cut  was  healing  satisfac- 
torily, and  I,  of  course,  after  hearing  what  she  had  said  of 
me  in  her  half  delirium,  was  particularly  anxious  to  be  at- 
tentive and  kind  to  her.     Accordingly,  I  was  generally  in 

T 


3o6  Studies  for  Stories. 

her  room,  and  she  was  better  pleased  to  have  me  than  any 
one  else,  partly  because  I  was  nearest  of  all  the  pupils  to 
her  own  age,  partly  because  she  perceived  how  truly  sorry 
I  was  for  her,  and  did  not  know  its  cause. 

Poor  Carohne !  she  was  told  that  May  was  going  away 
with  her  parents  and  with  Frances,  and  she  nerved  herself 
to  see  May.  The  Kttle  girl  was  led  in  by  me,  and  clung  to 
tne.     I  could  feel  her  Httle  heart  beat. 

"  May,  you  are  not  afraid  of  me  ?  "  said  Caroline,  in  a  re- 
gretful tone.  . 

The  little  girl  stammered  out,  "  No  !  " 
"  Kiss  me,  then,  my  dear  little  May  ;  I  am  glad  you  are 
safe,  though  it  is  through  no  care  of  mine." 

I  do  not  know  what  baby  fancies  were  working  in  the 
breast  of  May,  but  she  appeared  to  think  that  by  this  kiss 
she  should  express  some  kind  of  reproach  of  her  best 
friend.  She  turned  away  her  little  face  as  I  lifted  her  up, 
burst  into  tears,  and  sobbed  out,  "I  do  love  my  Miss 
Chris-tiana  Frances." 

Carohne,  on  hearing  this,  lay  down  on  her  couch  again 
and  wept.  She  did  not  say  a  word;  but  as  May  stijl 
sobbed,  I  said  to  her,  "  Caroline  wishes  you  always  to  love 
your  Miss  Frances." 

Upon  this  the  little  creature  rubbed  away  her  tears  with 
her  pretty  hands,  and  pursing  up  her  rosy  lips,  gave  Caro- 
hne the  kiss.  Then  Caroline  said,  "  Take  her  away ! " 
but  I  had  scarcely  turned  to  do  so,  when  the  door  was 
opened,  and  Frances  came  in.  She  was  in  her  travelling 
dress,  and  evidently,  though  she  had  sought  this  meeting, 
she  was  in  a  great  fright,  while  she  affected  to  feel  at  her 
ease. 

"  O,  it  is  you,  Frances  !  "  said  Carohne. 
Frances  could  not  say  a  word. 

"You  are  going  away  very  soon,  I  hear,"  proceeded 
Caroline. 


The  Stolen   Treasure.  307 

Still  Frances  stood  mute,  and  had*  turned  quite  pale  with 
agitation. 

I  wondered  at  Carohne's  calmness.  "  I  dare  say,"  she 
said,  "you  are  sorry  to  see'me  so  disfigured,  —  though  — 
though  —  " 

"  What  will  she  say  next  ?  "  I  thought,  in  terror  ;  and  I 
dashed  into  the  conversation,  by  informing  Caroline  tliat 
the  travelling  party  was  to  start  in  half  an  hour.  May,  in 
the  meantime,  had  gone  down  stairs,  and  Frances,  with  her 
cold  hand,  was  holding  me  to  prevent  my  following  her. 

"  Frances,"  said  Caroline,  still  the  only  speaker,  "  I  did 
think  I  would  not  see  you  before  you  went ;  but  now  I  am 
not  sorry  I  did,  for  I  see  how  much  you  pity  me." 

Frances  burst  into  tears. 

"  It  is  very  evident  though,"  added  CaroHne  bitterly, 
"  that  you  think  this,  —  this  bruise  a  punishment  on  me. 
Your  distress  shows  it  "  ;  and  she  went  on  ;  "  but  I  sup- 
pose you  have  forgiven  me  for  stealing  your  child,  since 
she  is  yours  again  now,  and  bound  to  you  for  ever  ? " 

There  was  something  so  regretful  and  so  painfully  calm 
in  Caroline's  way  of  speaking,  that  it  only  made  Frances 
cry  more  and  more  bitterly,  till  at  last  I  said,  in  despera- 
tion, "  Frances,  if  you  do  not  say  something,  I  shall  drag 
you  out  of  the  room  ;  you  are  making  Caroline  worse." 

This  seemed  to  rouse  her,  and  she  rose  up  quite  pale 
with  emotion,  and  knelt  beside  Caroline's  couch,  taking 
her  in  her  arms,  and  kissing  her  many  times. 

Her  passion  of  tears  and  excessive  emotion,  so  far  from 
distressing  Caroline,  seemed  to  soothe  her.  .  She  returned 
the  embrace  of  Frances,  and  when  the  latter,  still  utterly 
unable  to  command  her  voice,  rose  up  and  hurriedly  fled 
out  of  the  chamber,  she  really  seemed  comforted,  and 
lying  back  on  her  couch,  said  to  me,  with  tears,  "  O, 
Frances  is  far  better,  —  far  more  generous,  and  more  for- 
giving than  I  am  ! " 


3o8  Studies  for  Stories. 

So  May's  parents,  and  Frances,  and  her  little  treasure 
drove  away.  Caroline  got  rapidly .  better,  and  we  all  re- 
turned to  the  Willows  ;  but  the  fair  face  was  always 
marked  with  a  long  narrow  scar,  which  disfigured  the 
brow,  and  altered  the  expression  of  those  beautiful  eyes  ; 
but  whether  it  proved  a  permanent  memento  to  her,  and 
whether  the  providential  lesson  it  should  have  conveyed 
was  duly  learned,  I  cannot  now  tell  to  you,  my  reader, 
though  at  some  future  period  I  may  take  up  the  thread  of 
Caroline's  history  again. 

We  returned,  as  I  said,  to  the  Willows,  and  I  believe 
the  scenes  we  had  passed  through  had  solemnized  our 
minds,  and  been  made  instrumental  in  leading  our  thoughts 
to  deeper  and  more  serious  subjects. 

More  than  one  of  us  felt  desirous  to  dedicate  to  the  ser- 
vice of  our  merciful  God  those  lives  which  he  had  so 
graciously  preserved  ;  and  though  our  short-comings  have 
been  many,  both  in  remaining  childhood  and  in  giddy 
youth,  I  still  believe  that  for  more  than  one  the  perils  and 
terrors  of  that  night  of  awe  had  a  salutary  message,  and 
were  not  suffered  in  vain. 


EMILY'S    AMBITION 


CHAPTER    I. 

EMILY  WELLAND  was  an  orphan,  the  child  of  poor 
but  very  respectable  parents,  who  had  died  when  she 
was  too  young  to  feel  their  loss,  and  had  left  her  to  the 
care  of  her  grandmother. 

Few  young  people  of  her  age  and  rank  in  life  are  better 
instructed  than  Emily  was,  for  she  had  been  educated  at 
Aylsham  School,  under  a  certificated  mistress,  who  was  a 
superior  woman  and  respected  by  all.  She  was  appren- 
ticed as  a  "  pupil  teacher,"  at  fourteen  years  of  age, 
and  seemed  to  have  a  more  than  ordinary  chance  of  do- 
ing well  and  getting  on,  for  she  was  clever,  and  what 
is  called  "  sprack "  in  the  part  of  the  country  where  she 
lived. 

Emily  lived  with  her  grandmother  in  a  cottage  just  out- 
side the  small  town.  It  was  a  comfortable  cottage,  with  a 
garden  in  front,  where  the  old  woman  grew  a  few  potatoes 
and  cabbages.  The  thatch  was  green  with  lumps  of  moss 
as  soft  as  velvet,  and  there  was  a  flower-bed  in  front  which 
all  the  summer  was  gay  with  stocks,  and  wallflowers,  and 
flowering  myrtles,  besides  low-growing  plants,  such  as 
double  primroses  and  red  daisies. 

On  pleasant  evenings  Emily  would  often  spend  an  hour 
in  weeding  and  watering  the  flower-beds  ;  and  very  con- 
tented and  cheerful  she  generally  seemed  at  her  work ;  no 
one,  to  look  at  her  pretty  face,  would  have  guessed  how 


312  Studies  for  Stories. 

little  contentment  she  really  felt,  and  how  many  things 
there  were  in  her  lot  that  she  wished  she  could  alter.' 

There  was  a  Mechanic's  Institute  at  the  little  town ;  — 
the  subscription  was  five  shilKngs  a  year,  and  for  that  sum 
subscribers  might  take  out  more  books  than  it  was  easy  to 
read,  and  some  of  them  were  not  very  well  suited  for  the 
reading  of  the  industrious  classes. 

Emily  subscribed  to  the  Institute,  and  used  to  bring  the 
books  home  to  read ;  stories,  travels,  poetry,  history,  noth- 
ing seemed  to  come  amiss  to  her ;  but  she  liked  the  stories 
best,  though  she  sometimes  said  she  had  a  great  mind  to 
read  no  more  of  them,  for  they  were  all  about  ladies  and 
gentlemen,  and  made  keeping  school  and  keeping  shop, 
and  that  kind  of  thing,  seem  common  and  vulgar  work. 

Emily  had  a  friend  who  served  in  a  fancy  shop  in  the  lit- 
tle town,  and  the  two  girls  would  often  meet  at  dusk,  sit 
on  the  bench  just  outside"  the  cottage,  talk  about  their  fa- 
vorite characters  in  books,  and  describe  to  each  other*  the 
sort  of  people  they  should  like  to  be  if  they  could  change 
their  station.  Sometimes  they  would  say  they  wished  they 
had  been  born  ladies,  for  they  were  sure  they  were  more  fit 
for  ladies'  work  than  for  their  own.  Indeed  they  wished 
they  could  become  ladies  at  once,  nothing  but  money  being 
wanted  to  make  them  such ;  but  if  the  old  grandmother 
was  present,  she  would  laugh  at  them  in  rather  a  mortify- 
ing way,  and  say  in  her  broad  Dorset  dialect : — 

"  Go  along,  Mary  Best !  don't  talk  to  I.  If  thou  was 
dressed  up  as  fine  as  the  Queen,  thou  could  n't  play  the 
lady  without  being  found  out." 

When  things  of  this  kind  were  said,  Mary  Best  generally 
took  her  leave,  not  without  a  toss  of  the  head  that  in  a  la- 
dy would  have  been  highly  unbecoming,  and  that  was  vul- 
gar and  uncivil  in  a  shop-girl. 

Though  Emily  liked  to  talk  nonsense  with  Mary  Best, 
and  wish  herself  in  a  higher  station,  she  did  not  neglect  to 


Emilys  Ambition.  313 

prepare  herself  for  what  was  likely  to  be  her  own  ;  she  ex- 
pected to  be  a  schoolmistress,  and  she  worked  hard  to 
qualify  herself  to  be  a  good  one.  A  certificate  is  not  an 
easy  thing  to  be  got  in  these  days,  for  the  examinations 
are  very  strict :  but  Emily  was  bent  on  having  one  of  the 
first  class,  and  being  both  industrious  and  clever,  it  seemed 
hkely  she  would  succeed. 

She  was  within  six  months  of  being  out  of  her  ap- 
prenticeship, and  was  hard  at  work  preparing  to  go  up  to 
Salisbury  to  the  Diocesan  examination  there,  when  one 
evening  a  neighbor  came  in  and  brought  the  news  that  a 
certain  Mrs.  Smalley  had  arrived  in  the  town,  and  was 
stopping  at  the  "  White  Hart." 

"  Your  own  niece,  Mrs.  Welland,"  observed  the  neigh- 
bor; "and  they  do  say -that  she  drove  up  in  a  fly,  with  a 
Leghorn  bonnet  and  feathers,  quite  the  lady." 

"My  own  niece,"  repeated  Emily's  grandmother;  "I 
wonder  whether  she  will  come  and  see  her  old  aunt  ?  " 

"  She  can  easy  find  your  place  if  she  wants  to  see  you," 
observed  the  neighbor  ;  "  for  you  are  not  like  a  many,  al- 
ways changing  it." 

"I've  kept  myself  respectable,'"  said  the  old  woman, 
"  and  never  come  upon  the  parish  ;  so  be  she  lady,  or  be 
she  not,  she  may  come  and  see  I." 

"They  do  say  she  is  very  good  to  the  poor,"  remarked 
her  friend. 

"  We  are  not  poor,"  interrupted  Emily,  as  red  as  a  rose, 
"  at  least  not  poor  enough  to  want  anything  from  Mrs. 
Smalley." 

"  Poor  child,"  replied  the  neighbor,  "  I  can  tell  you  what 
you  are  poor  enough  to  want  of  her  !  I  wish  I  was  as  near 
to  her  as  you  are,  and  I  would  speak  up  at  once  for  my 
Mary  Anne." 

"So  they  do  say  she  looked  quite  the  lady,"  said  the 
grandmother.  "  What  changes  there  be  in  tliis  world  1 
14 


3 14  Studies  for  Stories. 

Letty  a  lady,  money  in  her  pocket,  and  drives  up  to  the 
best  inn  in  the  town." 

"  Yes,  you  may  well  be  proud,"  replied  the  neighbor ; 
"  but  I  suppose  you  won't  call  her  Letty  now.  A  first-rate 
London  milliner,  and  has  ladies  of  title  in  her  show-rooms, 
and  makes  hundreds  of  pounds ;  but  what  do  you  think 
she  is  come  here  for,  Mrs.  Welland  ?  " 

"  Not  to  see  her  own  folk,  I  '11  be  bound,"  replied  the 
grandmother,  with  a  shrewd  smile. 

"  Why,  no  ;  but  it  is  to  show  a  respect  to  the  family,  too. 
I  was  waiting  at  the  Vicarage  door  to  know  whether  they 
wanted  any  fowls  ;  I  had  sold  all  but  my  last  pair,  and 
while  the  boy  was  gone  into  the  parlor  to  ask  whether 
Madam  had  a  mind  to  them,  who  should  come  up  but 
Tom  Trott,  that  is  ostler  at  the  White  Hart  :  he  had 
brought  a  parcel  that  had  just  come  by  the  coach,  so  I 
asked  him  if  he  knew  what  Mrs.  Smalley  had  come  to  the 
town  for.  '  No  less,'  says  he,  '  as  I  hear,  than  to  have  a 
headstone  put  up  to  the  memory  of  old  Letty  Welland.'  " 

"  Bless  us  !  "  cried  the  grandmother  ;  "  well,  she  might 
have  done  more  for  her  mother  while  the  poor  soul  was 
living  ;  but  this  is  a  mighty  respect  for  all  that" 

"  So  I  say,"  observed  the  neighbor.  "  It  shows  she  is 
no  ways  ashamed  of  your  poor  sister.    Does  n't  it,  Emily  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Emily ;  "  perhaps  she  does  it  out 
of  respect  to  herself." 

"  That  was  all  I  heard,"  added  the  neighbor.  "  They 
bought  the  fowls,  and  paid  two-and-ninepence  for  them. 
Well,  good-night,  Mrs.  Welland,  and  Emily.  I  must  go 
home  ;  I  am  late  already." 

Emily  went  to  bed  that  night  full  of  thought.  This  rela- 
tive, whom  she  had  never  expected  to  see,  had  often  been 
talked  of  by  her  grandmother  as  having  acquired  money 
enough  to  live  in  luxury,  and  wear  clothes  as  fine  as  any 
she  made.    "  And  what  will  my  calling  do  for  me  ? "  thought 


Emily  s  Ambition.  315 

the  pupil  teacher  ;  "perhaps  if  I  get  a  first-class  certificate, 
and  prove  as  good  a  mistress  as  Miss  Cooper,  I  may  get 
in  the  end  a  house  to  live  in,  and  eighty  pounds  a  year  in 
all.  That  is  too  much  to  expect,  but  still  it  is  not  im.pos- 
sible.  For  that  I  shall  have  to  work  very  hard,  and  what 
shall  I  be  ?  why,  nothing  but  a  teacher  of  poor  folk's  chil- 
dren, and  what  a  common  vulgar  sort  of  trade  that  seems  ! 
How  hard  it  is  that  I  should  have  to  learn  so  much  to  gain, 
so  little,  while  Mrs.  Smalley  can  make  her  hundreds  by 
just  fitting  a  bonnet  well,  and  snipping  up  silk  into  becom- 
ing trimmings." 

It  so  happened,  fortunately  as  Emily  thought,  because 
it  gave  her  a  chance  of  seeing  Mrs.  Smalley,  —  it  so  hap- 
pened that  the  next  day  was  a  whole  holiday  at  the  school, 
and  when  Emily  came  out  at  the  cottage  door,  and  stood 
in  the  shade  at  seven  o'clock  the  next  morning,  and  knew 
that  she  had  nothing  to  do  all  day  but  to  rest  and  enjoy 
herself,  she  felt  what  a  pleasure  it  was  to  be  free. 

Emily  had  dressed  herself  in  a  clean  •  hlac  and  white 
print  gown,  and  had  fastened  up  her  hair  more  neatly  than 
usual,  half  hoping  that  her  cousin  might  come  and  see  her 
and  her  grandmother.  It  was  the  middle  of  July,  and  the 
heat  of  the  night  had  caused  many  of  the  flowers  to  shed 
their  leaves.  The  little  path  was  strewed  with  red  and 
white  rose-leaves.  Emily  picked  them  up,  and  then  got  a 
duster  and  polished  the  little  casement-window  and  made 
everything  about  the  cottage  look  tidy  and  respectable. 
Then  she  went  in  and  had  her  breakfast  with  her  grand- 
mother, after  which  the  old  woman  went  out  upon  her 
usual  market-day  expedition,  which  was  to  sell  cream 
cheeses  for  the  wife  of  a  neighboring  farmer. 

Emily  being  now  left  alone  took  up  her  plain  work  and 
sat  close  to  the  pleasant  little  casement,  enjoying  the  scent 
of  the  rosemary  and  the  sweet-brier :  she  half  hoped  that 
Mrs.  Smalley  would  call,  and  yet,  when  about  ten  o'clock 


3i6  Studies  for  Stories. 

she  heard  the  sound  of  a  step  on  the  path,  she  felt  so  shy- 
that  she  could  not  look  up. 

However,  she  need  not  have  minded,  —  the  gown-  that 
now.  brushed  against  the  lihes  in  the  narrow  path  was  not 
a  silk  one,  and  the  voice  that  spoke  in  the  open  door-way 
was  not  a  strange  one. 

"  EUie,  is  Ellie  at  home  ?  "  asked  Miss  Cooper,  the  mis- 
tress. 

"  O  yes.  Miss  Cooper,  I  am  here,  ma'am,"  said  Emily ; 
"  pray  come  in." 

"  How  pleasant  and  quiet  it  seems  here,"  replied  the 
schoolmistress.  "  Child,  you  are  highly  favored  to  have 
such  a  peaceable  home.  —  Well,  I  thought  I  would  come 
and  have  a  chat  witli  you,  Ellie,  on  my  way  to  see  poor 
Sally  Eaton." 

"  Is  her  little  girl  dead  ?  "  asked  Emily. 

"  Yes,  the  mother  sent  me  word  of  her  death  last  night, 
and  asked  me  to  come  and  see  her." 

"She  was  a  good  little  thing,"  said  Emily,  "and  im- 
proved wonderfully  when  she  had  been  at  school  a  little 
while.     She  was  not  like  the  same  child." 

"  So  her  mother  said  yesterday." 

"  She  is  a  grateful  woman,"  replied  Emily,  "  not  like 
Polly  Gay's  mother,  for  when  you  sent  me  to  ask  her  to 
be  more  particular  to  send  the  child  in  good  time,  and  I 
said  it  was  a  shame  she  should'  be  so  careless  about  the 
child's  learning,  when  you  took  such  pains  with  it,  she 
answered,  that  there  was  nothing  to  be  thankful  for,  seeing 
you  were  paid  for  teaching  the  child." 

"  Yes,  to  be  sure,"  said  the  mistress  ;  "  money  will  make 
us  work,  but  money  will  not  make  us  give  our  hearts  to 
the  work,  —  nothing  but  love  for  the  work,  or  real  good 
principle,  can  make  us  do  that.  So  there  was  something 
for  her  to  be  thankful  for,  poor  soul,  if  she  had  but  known 
it." 


Emilys  Ambition.  317 

"  I  can't  bear  to  hear  them  say  we  teach  because  we  are 
paid,"  said  Emily,  vehemently. 

"Why,  child,"  answered  the  mistress,  smiling,  "you 
would  not  teach,  would  you,  if  you  were  7iot  paid  ?  " 

"  No,  ma'am,  of  course  not.  I  could  not  afford  to  teach 
for  nothing." 

"Well,  but  if  you  could  afford  it—  " 

"  O,"  interrupted  Emily,  "  if  I  could  afford  it,  ma'am,  I 
should  be  a  lady,  and  then  of  course  I  should  not  teach  in 
the  way  I  do  now.  I  should  not  drudge  utyself^  in  a  school, 
but  I  dare  say  I  should  be  just  as  charitable  as  Lady  S. 
and  Lady  G.,  and  the  great  ladies  that  one  hears  of.  I 
should  pay  somebody  to  teach  for  me." 

"  Bless  you,  child,"  exclaimed  the  mistress  ;  "  surely  you 
don't  think  that  would  be  the  same  thing." 

"  It  would  do  as  much  good  to  the  children  as  if  I  taught 
them  myself,"  said  Emily,  "  and  it  would  be  a  vast  deal 
pleasanter.  I  should  get  a  great  deal  of  praise,  to(^  in- 
stead of  being  told  that  I  was  only  doing  my  duty  because 
folks  paid  me." 

"Well,  but  ElHe,  we  can  do  all  our  duties  in  a  selfish  or 
in  a  self-denying  way." 

"Yes,"  replied  Emily,  "but  it  does  not  count  for  self-de-  • 
nial,  ma'am ;  I  mean,  it  does  not  count  in  the  opinion  of 
other  folks.     Nobody  would  say  that  you  spent  your  life  in 
doing  good,  because,  you  see,  you  are  paid." 

"  Well,  child,  and  is  it  not  the  will  of  God  that  we  should 
earn  our  bread,  —  and  have  n't  we  a  right  to  be  paid  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Emily,  sighing,  "  though,  rather  than  be  a 
poor  teacher  in  a  school,  I  should  like  to  have  been  a  lady, 
and  then  the  good  I  did  would  have  been  in  such  a  far 
pleasanter  way,  and  no  trouble  worth  mentioning.  What 
are  you  laughing  at.  ma'am  ?  " 

"  Well,"  said  the  worthy  mistress,  "  I  ought  to  be 
ashamed  of  myself  to  laugh  ;  for  to  fret  at  the  decree  of 


3 1 8  Studies  for  Stories. 


a  light  fault,  and,  Ellie,  you  should  try  to  get  grace  to  be 
contented.  But,  child,  I  laughed  at  your  notion  of  doing 
good.  Do  you  think  I  would  change  with  such  ladies  as 
you  speak  of?  Have  n't  I  kept  school  twenty-five  years 
and  taught  twelve  hundred  children  to  read  right  well,  and 
write  pretty  well,  and  know  their  duty  to  God  and  to  other 
folks  ?  Not  but  what  it  was  my  duty  j  of  course  it  was 
my  duty,  and  I  have  earned  my  bread  by  it.  But  child, 
only  think  what  an  honor  and  an  advantage  it  is  to  us,  and 
such  as  us,  that  we  can't  earn  our  bread  without  scattering 
blessings  wherever  we  go.  Why,  it  might  have  been  the 
will  of  Providence  that  we  should  live  by  making  artificial 
flowers,  or  beads  to  trim  dresses  with,  or  sugar-plums  for 
little  spoiled  pets  of  children  to  make  their  pretty  teeth 
ache  with.  We  should  earn  our  money  just  the  same  then ; 
but  what  should  we  give  for  it,  compared  with  what  we 
have  the  blessing  of  giving  -now  ?  Why,  nothing  at  all. 
Six  months  after  death  a  few  faded  cambric  roses  would  be 
what  was  left  of  our  work  in  this  world  ;  our  work,  I  mean, 
that  we  got  our  bread  by ;  but  your  work  and  mine,  Ellie  ? 
—  I  don't  expect  that  to  perish  altogether." 
•     "  I  never  thought  of  that,"  said  Emily,  thoughtfully. 

"  Child,"  repHed  the  mistress,  "  do  not  think  that  I  am 
boastful  of  my  calling,  just  because  I  follow  it.  I  am  grate- 
ful certainly  that  I  have  such  a  good  one  ;  but  the  greater 
the  work  the  more  the  shortcomings  show." 

"It  was  very  good  of  you  to  come  and  see  me,  ma'am," 
said  Emily,  for  her  guest  had  risen  and  showed  signs  of 
intending  to  leave. 

"  Will  you  give  me  a  sprig  of  rosemary,  and  a  handful  of 
roses  to  put  in  the  little  one's  coffin  ?  "  said  the  mistress. 

"  Surely,  ma'am,"  Emily  answered,  and  she  caipe  out 
and  gathered  some  of  her  sweetest  flowers.  After  follow- 
ing Miss  Cooper  with  her  eyes  till  she  disappeared,  she 


Emilys  Ambition.  319 

returned  to  her  work  with  a  sensation  of  greater  respect 
for  her  than  she  had  ever  felt  before.  "  I  am  glad,"  she 
thought,  "  that  I  did  not  tell  her  what  a  mind  I  had  to  see 
if  Mrs.  Smalley  would  teach  me  dressmaking  ;  and  how  I 
disliked  the  notion  of  teaching,  because  it  seemed  so  low  J 
Why,  she  would  only  have  said  as  she  did  to  Amy  Price, 
*  Low^  child  !  —  wait  a  year  or  two  before  you  presume"  to 
give  an  opinion ;  it  is  too  high  above  you  to  judge  of  it  at 
present'  However,"  thought  EUie,  "  I  am  not  at  all 
sure  that  I  shall  keep  to  teaching,  if  I  have  a  chance  of 
finding  some  better  employment." 

At  one  o'clock  Emily  had  some  dinner,  and  sat  quietly 
at  work  till  half  past  four,  when  the  grandmother  came  in 
hot  and  tired  and  ready  for  her  tea  ;  so  Emily  set  out  the 
little  deal  table  with  the  tea-things,  the  loaf  and  butter,  and* 
a  small  piece  of  cold  bax:on.  Her  grandmother  put  her 
basket  on  a  chair,  took  off  her  bonnet,  and  they  sat  down 
to  enjoy  their  meal.  Another  step  on  the  narrow  path, 
and  a  great  deal  of  rusthng,  and  then  a  tap  on  the  open 
door,  and  when  they  turned,  a  stout  lady,  all  silks '  and 
gauzes  and  laces  and  feathers  stood  there,  and  asked,  "  Is 
this  Mrs.  Welland's  house  ?  " 

"Yes,  ma'am,"  said  Emily,  walking  to  the  door,  "will 
you  come  in  ?  " 

Her  grandmother  had,  in  the  mean  time,  brushed  the 
crumbs  from  her  lap  with  her  hard  honest  hands,  and 
turning  half  round  in  her  chair  was  looking  at  her  gayly 
dressed  visitor. 

"  I  suppose  you  don't  remember  me,"  said  the  grand 
lady,  in  rather  a  condescending  manner.  "  My  name  is 
Mrs.  Smalley." 

"  Yes,  ma'am,"  said  Emily's  grandmother,  "  so  I  sup- 
pose, and  I  take  it  kind  —  " 

"  And  this  is  your  granddaughter,  I  see,"  observed  the 
lady,  sinking  into  a  chair.     "  Well,  I  'm  sure  !  a  very  pretty 


320  Studies  for  Stories. 

young  person  she  is  too.  Your  garden  smells  very  sweet 
after  London,  aunt." 

The  fine  lady  said  this  word  in  rather  a  low  voice,  but  it 
gave  satisfaction  ;  and  when  in  a  tone  of  great  condescen- 
sion she  said  she  would  take  a  cup  of  tea  with  them, 
the  grandmother  felt  more  at  her  ease,  and  began  to 
answer  her  questions  and  take  her  meal  with  tolerable 
comfort. 

"  She  is  a  very  genteel-looking,  pretty  young  person,"  re- 
peated Mrs.  Smalley,  staring  at  Emily,  and  talking  of  her 
as  composedly  as  if  she  had  not  been  present,  "  and  she 
would  loX)k  very  well  in  my  show-room." 

Emily  blushed  deeply  at  this  remark,  but  Mrs.  Smalley 
did  not  continue  the  subject,  presently  saying,  that  she  had 
come  to  the  town  partly  with  a  view  of  putting  up  a  monu- 
ment to  the  memory  of  her  mother  ;  and  that  she  had  called 
on  the  Vicar,  and  asked  to  be  shown  her  mother's  grave, 
but  that  he  did  not  remember  which  it  was. 

"  My  aunt  was  not  buried  in  Aylsham  churchyard,"  said 
Emily. 

"  So  I  found,"  rephed  the  milliner  ;  "  I  got  the  Rev.  Mr. 
Ward  to  look  into  the  book,  and  my  poor  mother's  name 
was  not  in  it." 

"  She  was  buried  in  D —  churchyard,"  proceeded  Emily, 
"  and  I  remember  the  place  quite  well,  for  grandmother 
and  I  followed  her  to  the  grave.  If  you  remember  D — 
church,  ma'am,  you  will  know  that  it  is  but  a  short  walk 
from  this.  You  can  see  the  spire  peeping  over  the  wood 
at  the  back  of  our  cottage." 

"  I  should  wish  to  see  the  grave,"  rephed  Mrs.  Smalley. 
"  My  feelings  would  be  gratified  by  knowing  the  place 
where  my  poor  mother  lies,  and  my  notion  is,  that  a  child 
ought  to  honor  a  parent,  in  death  as  well  as  in  life,  though, 
—  ahem,  —  though  the  parent  may  have  been  in  an  inferior 
station." 


Emily  s  Ambition.  32 1 

"  Surely,"  replied  Emily,  a  little  shocked. 

"  Therefore,"  proceeded  Mrs.  Smalley,  "  I  shall  go  my- 
self to  see  the  grave,  for  as  I  said  to  the  Vicar  this  morn- 
ing, '  Sir  ! '  I  said, '  there  is  no  disgrace  in  being  connected 
with  the  lower  orders,  provided  the  individuals  know  how 
to  conduct  themselves  respectably,  for  in  the  sight  of  our 
Maker  they  and  I  are  all  equal.'  I  shall  be  glad  of  your 
services  to  show  me  the  way  to  D —  church,  Emily  Wel- 
land." 

"  Yes,  ma'am,"  rephed  Emily,  but  the  respect  with  which 
she  had  at  first  regarded  their  richly  dressed  and  self-suffi- 
cient visitor  was  rapidly  melting  away,  and  it  vexed  her  to 
observe  that  her  grandmother  sat  perfectly  silent,  and 
seemed  unable  to  look  Mrs.  Smalley  in  the  face.  The 
good  old  woman  was  in  fact  in  a  perplexed  and  troubled 
state  of  mind,  for  it  naturally  seemed  to  her  curious  that 
.  her  poor  sister  should  have  been  allowed  during  her  hfe  to 
receive  parish  pay,  and  should  now  be  honored  with  a 
monument.  However,  she  had  not  much  time  for  these 
speculations,  for  Emily  at  Mrs.  Smalley's  request  put  on 
her  bonnet  to  walk  with  her  to  D —  church.  The  niece 
took  an  aifable  leave  of  her  worthy  aunt,  who  gave  her  a 
sovereign  which  she  desired  her  to  spend  in  buying  a  new 
shawl  as  a  remembrance  of  this  visit. 

Mrs.  Smalley  had  begun  life  as  a  lady's-maid.  Her 
mistress  being  a  great  invalid  had  interested  herself,  and 
employed  some  of  her  leisure  in  teaching  her,  and  making 
her  read  aloud  to  her.  After  some  years  the  butler  and 
maid  married,  and  then  the  same  good  friend  had  helped 
her  favorite  to  set  up  business  as  a  dressmaker,  by  which 
she  had  now  become  rich  and  prosperous. 

The  young  pupil  teacher  walked  across  the  fields  with 

her,  listening  to  her  discourse,  every  sentence  of  which 

showed  that  she  had  money  and  lived  in  luxury.     At  last 

Emily  ventured  to  ask  her  whether  she  wanted  a  young 

14*  U 


322  Studies  for  Stories. 

person  as  an  upper  assistant  in  her  business  ;  —  she  men- 
tioned that  she  understood  book-keeping,  and  was  also 
handy  at  her  needle,  and  should  like  much  to  learn  dress- 
making. 

To  her  dehght  Mrs.  Smalley  replied  that  if  she  wished 
to  learn  she  might  enter  her  house  on  the  same  footing  as 
the  other  young  persons,  provided  she  did  not  mention  her 
relationship  to  herself,  nor  presume  upon  it.  "  As  to  any- 
thing higher,"  continued  Mrs.  Smalley,  "  that  might  possi- 
bly be  in  time,  if  you  gave  satisfaction,  Emily  Welland." 

"  I  could  not  come  till  next  January  or  February,  ma'am," 
said  Emily,  "  but  if  I  can  manage  it  then,  will  you  receive 
me?" 

"  Certainly,"  was  the  reply.  "  I  am  pleased  with  your 
appearance,  and  with  what  I  heard  of  you  this  morning 
from  the  Vicar  ;  and  I  have  no  objection  to  say  that  I  will 
befriend  you  so  far." 

"  If  grandmother  has  no  objection,"  Emily  now  put  in, 
but  she  inwardly  resolved  that  she  would  not  tell  her  grand- 
mother of  the  plan  till  her  apprenticeship  was  over. 

The  grave  of  the  old  mother  was  found.  It  was  a  green 
mound  lying  in  the  evening  sunshine  near  a  fine  yew-tree  ; 
and  Emily  having  pointed  it  out,  made  her  curtsey  and 
took  her  leave,  going  home  to  her  grandmother's  cottage 
full  of  thoughts  about  London  and  of  "  bettering  herself " 
and  rising  in  the  world,  but  not  quite  sure  that  she  had 
done  right,  "  though,  to  be  sure,"  she  thought,  "  I  need  not 
go  to  Mrs.  Smalley  in  January  unless  I  please  ;  if  everybody 
is  against  it,  I  have  made  no  promise,  I  can  keep  school 
after  all.  I  wonder  what  John  Mills  would  think  if  he  knew 
that  I  was  thinking  of  going  to  London." 


Emily  5  Ambition.  323 


CHAPTER    II. 


IN  a  cottage  very  near  Emily,  John  Mills  lived  with  his 
father  and  mother  and  three  little  sisters.  His  father 
was  a  stone-cutter,  and  John  had  been  brought  up  to  the 
same  trade,  but  he  had  taught  himself  also  to  cut  in  wood, 
and  had  carved  a  beautiful  httle  model  of  a  monument, 
which  he  had  given  to  the  Vicar  of  A.,  who  had  befriended 
him. 

The  consequence  was  that  when  Mrs.  Smalley  consulted 
the  Vicar  as  to  who  she  should  employ  to  make  her  sister's 
monument,  he  named  John  Mills,  saying  that  he  was  a 
very  young  man,  but  one  who  had  great  talent,  and  would 
take  more  than  common  pains.  At  the  same  time  he 
showed  her  the  model,  together  with  some  drawings  which 
had  been  made  by  Mills,  and  Mrs.  Smalley  admired  them 
so  much  that  she  resolved  to  employ  him. 

Now  John  Mills  had  not  had  so  many  advantages  of 
education  as  Emily,  but  she  had  without  knowing  it  been 
of  great  use  to  him,  for  from  his  earliest  youth  he  had 
wished  for  nothing  so  much  as  to  obtain  her  for  a  wife. 
And  though  she  did  not  seem  at  present  to  return  his  re- 
gard, and  he  felt  that  he  had  little  reasonable  hope  of  suc- 
ceeding, he  yet  continued  to  make  the  best  use  of  every 
opportunity  for  improving  himself,  in  order  that  he  might, 
as  he  thought,  be  more  worthy  of  her.  But  John,  modest 
as  he  was,  and  humble  in  his  thoughts  of  himself,  was 
actuated  by  higher  principle  than  that  which  governed 
Emily.  Emily  thought  first  of  advancing  herself,  and 
secondly  of  her  duty;  John  thought  first  of  his  duty,  and 


324  Studies  for  Stories. 

did  it,  and  secondly,  he  strove  to  advance  himself,  both 
in  knowledge  and  in  his  calling. 

John  had  early  shown  such  a  taste  for  carving,  that  a 
gentleman  in  the  neighborhood  who  had  seen  his  work 
proposed  to  place  him  with  a  sculptor  in  London,  and  also 
to  have  him  taught  to  draw.  But  when  the  boy,  who  at 
first  was  delighted  at  the  prospect,  found  that  for  a  long 
time  he  should  be  maintained  at  his  benefactor's  expense 
and  earn  nothing,  he  shrank  back  and  decided  to  stay  with 
his  parents,  whom  he  could  help  by  his  weekly  earnings. 
His  father,  though  a  clever  workman,  was  often  laid  up 
with  rheumatic  gout  in  the  hands,  and  could  earn  nothing 
during  the  winter  months,  and  John  rightly  thought  he 
ought  not  to  go  away  even  for  the  sake  of  improving  him- 
self, if  he  should  thereby  put  it  out  of  his  power  to  help  to 
maintain  his  parents,  and  put  his  little  sisters  to  school. 

"It  would  only  be  for  five  years,"  said  his  patron,  " and 
at  the  end  of  that  time,  John,  you  would  doubtless  be  able 
to  earn  very  excellent  wages  indeed." 

"  Only  you  see,  sir,"  replied  the  boy  respectfully,  "  I 
might  not  live  to  the  end  of  the  five  years,  and  then  what 
would  father  and  mother  do  ?  " 

"  Well,  well,"  said  the  patron,  "  I  have  offered  to  help 
you,  and  in  the  end  no  doubt  it  v/ould  be  to  the  advantage 
of  your  parents ;  but  if  they  cannot  spare  you,  I  have  no 
more  to  say." 

"  I  shall  be  very  thankful  to  go,"  replied  the  boy,  with 
tears  in  his  eyes,  "  please  God  my  father's  hands  get  better." 

But  his  father's  hands  did  not  get  better,  and  John 
worked  on  from  year  to  year.  Yet  though  he  could  not 
have  the  advantage  of  good  instruction,  he  did  not,  as 
many  would  have  done,  content  himself  with  entire  igno- 
rance ;  on  the  contrary,  he  studied  all  the  books  which 
threw  any  light  on  his  art  that  he  could  procure  from  the 
Mechanic's  Institute,  or  borrow  from  those  who  befriended 


•  Emily  s  Ambition.  325 

him.  He  also  read,  and  did  all  he  could  to  improve  his 
mind ;  but  he  had  very  Htlle  time  ;  and  he  sometimes  felt 
that  if  it  had  not  been  for  the  fear  lest  Emily  Welland 
should  think  him  an  ignorant  fellow,  he  must  have  given 
up  striving,  for  it  was  dry  work,  with  no  one  to  direct  him, 
or  share  in  his  labor. 

The  Vicar  was  his  kindest  friend,  and  when  he  had 
spoken  to  Mrs.  Smalley,  and  induced  her  to  employ  him, 
he  walked  out  to  the  cottage  where  John  Mills  lived  to  tell 
him  of  it. 

The  young  man  was  at  his  wood-carving  in  a  small 
workshop  or  shed  that  he  had  made  for  himself  at  the  side 
of  his  father's  cottage.  It  was  a  pleasant  place  overhung 
by  two  apple-trees,  into  one  of  which  a  clematis  plant  had 
climbed,  and  a  white  passion-flower. 

"Ah,  John,"  said  the  clergyman,  "I  see  where  you  got 
the  copy  for  that  screen  that  you  carved  for  Lady  G — ; 
here  are  the  very  leaves  hanging  down  before  your  shed 
that  you  have  wreathed  round  it." 

"  Yes,  sir,"  said  John,  "  and  the  hlies  came  out  of  Mrs. 
Welland's  garden. 

The  business  that  the  Vicar  had  come  about  was  then 
mentioned,  and  very  glad  was  the  industrious  young  man 
to  undertake  it ;  but  his  friend  noticed  that  he  seemed 
tired  and  looked  overworked,  and  he  said  to  him  before 
taking  his  leave,  "  I  am  afraid  you  work  too  long  at  a  time, 
John,  and  your  father  tells  me  you  sit  up  at  night  to  cipher 
and  read." 

"  Ah,"  said  John,  "  but  a  young  fellow  had  need  work 
hard  with  his  learning,  sir,  if  he  wants  to  marry  a  school- 
mistress." 

"  O  that 's  it,  is  it  1 "  replied  the  Vicar,  kindly. 

"  But  she,"  proceeded  John,  "  she  keeps  so  far  ahead  of 
me,  that  I  reckon  I  have  very  little  chance ;  as  fast  as  I 
learn  one  thing,  I  find  she  knows  another." 


326  Studies  for  Stories. . 

"  And  yet  you  do  contrive  to  improve  yourself,  John ; 
and  there  are  your  wood-carvings,  too ;  you  should  show 
them  to  Emily  Welland,  man :  if  she  excels  in  one  thing, 
you  do  in  another." 

The  young  man  smiled.  "  I  have  shown  'em  to  her, 
sometimes,  sir,"  he  rephed ;  "but  she  calls  carving 
'whittling.'" 

"Well,  well,"  answered  the  clergyman,  smihng  in  his 
turn,  "  but  that  is  for  want  of  knowing  better,  John,  and 
the  best  wives  are  often  not  easily  obtained ;  Emily  Wel- 
land is  a  very  superior  young  woman." 

"  Superior,  sir  !"  replied  John,  warmly.  "  Ah,  you  naay 
well  say  that ;  there  's  nobody  like  her." 

That  same  afternoon,  as  Emily  and  her  grandmother 
were  sitting  at  their  tea  about  half  past  four  o'clock,  the 
latter  told  her  granddaughter  that  she  had  heard  a  report 
in  the  town  respecting  the  monument  which  Mrs.  Smalley 
meant  to  put  up  to  her  mother's  memory.  "  It  is  to  be  a 
grand  thing,  not  in  the  churchyard,  but  in  the  church,  as  I 
hear,*'  said  the  old  woman,  "  and  they  do  say  that  John 
Mills  is  to  make  it." 

Great  was  Emily's  surprise,  and  so  great  her  curiosity  to 
know  what  sort  of  work  John  Mills  could  bestow  on  the 
monument,  —  that  when  her  grandmother  proposed  that 
she  should  step  into  the  cottage  where  Mills  lived,  and  ask 
the  particulars  about  this  matter,  she  made  no  objection, 
but  put  on  her  bonnet  and  took  her  grandmother's 
message. 

Passing  through  his  mother's  garden  she  reached  the 
sunny  little  shed  where  John  Mills  worked,  and  found  him 
with  a  sharp  tool  in  his  hand  carving  a  leaf  on  the  lid  of  a 
small  box.  John  wiped  a  little  bench  for  her  to  sit  on,  but 
Emily  preferred  to  stand,  leaning  against  the  side-post  of 
the  shed  looking  about  her.  She  had  not  entered  the  place 
for  some  time ;  and  though  she  did  not  understand  much 


Emily  s  Ambition.  327 

about  the  work  he  was  engaged  in,  she  observed  at  once 
that  some  of  it  was  very  different  from  the  common  articles 
which  she  had  seen  produced  by  workmen,  or  even  those 
which  she  had  seen  John  Mills's  father  carve  when  she  was 
a  little  child,  and  loved  to  watch  him  when  he  was  cutting 
the  angel  faces  for  the  church. 

John  soon  told  Emily  what  she  wished  to  know,  and 
added,  "  I  was  to  wait  on  Mrs.  Smalley  at  the  White  H^rt 
before  she  left  the  town,  and  hear  what  her  notions  were 
about  the  stone.  She  wished  to  have  an  urn  on  it  —  I 
said  I  could  carve  that  very  easy,  but  I  should  Hke  better 
to  do  a  wTeath  of  leaves." 

"And  why  not  the  urn  1 "  said  Emily. 

"Why,  because  that  is  only  an  imitation  sort  of 'thing, 
that  we  should  never  have  thought  of  putting  up,  only  that 
there  were  nations  who  used  to  burn  their  dead,  and  they 
collected  the  ashes  in  urns,  and  when  they  carved  a  mar- 
■*«  ble  urn,  it  was  a  natural  way  of  reminding  them  of  the 
dead." 

"  I  Uke  to  see  folks  represented  on  their  tombs,  Ipng 
with  their  hands  up  praying,"  said  Emily. 

"Yes,  but  that  would  be  to.o  expensive,  too  grand  for 
what  I  am  to  do :  this  is  to  be  what  they  call  a  mural 
tablet,  and  very  small,  just  the  name  and  age,  and  one 
text.  So  I  proposed  to  carve  a  garland  of  leaves,  and 
twist  them  with  a  ribbon,  on  which  I  could  cut  the  words 

*  We  all  do  fade  as  a  leaf.'  " 

"  Poor  old  Aunt,"  said  Emily;  "and  when  folks  see  it, 
they  will  think  she  was  a  lady,  and  no  one  will  doubt  that 
she  had  plenty  of  good  clothes  and  lay  warm  and  comfort- 
able at  night,  and  yet,  John,  it  seems  very  respectable  to 
have  a  monument,  does  n't  it  ?  I  think  I^  should  like  one 
myself." 

♦  "  Mr.  Ward  said  once  in  his  sermon,"  observed  John, 
" '  Why  should  we  regret  that  the  remembrance  of  us 


328  Studies  for  Stories. 

should  perish  from  the  earth,  if  our  names  are  written 
in  heaven  ? '  " 

"  How  you  remember  the  sermons,  John,"  said  Emily ; 
"  it  must  be  that  you  think  of  them  more  than  I  do  ;  but 
when  I  hear  that  sort  of  thing  said,  I  cannot  help  wishing 
that  I  was  great  enough  to  be  remembered  here,  or  good 
enough,  or  wise  enough." 

"  We  all  wish,  you  see,  to  be  the  upper  and  not  the  un- 
der," observed  John;  "now  for  my  part,  I  always  keep 
wishing  that  I  could  carve  stone  as  well  as  carving  can 
possibly  be  done,  even  as  well  as  Gibbons  carved  wood  ;  if 
I  could  but  carve  hke  him,  I  think  I  should  be  happy." 

John  rose  as  he  spoke,  and  waded  among  the  delicate 
wood-shavings  to  a  rough  table.  "  Look,"  said  he.  "  Mr. 
Clements,  the  gentleman  that  was  so  kind  as  to  wish  to 
put  me  to  school,  came  here  six  weeks  ago,  and  said  if  I* 
could  carve  him  a  figure,  he  would  take  it  to  London  and 
have  it  valued,  and  whatever  it  was  said  to  be  worth  he 
would  give  me  for  it."  John  lifted  up  some  coarse  wet 
cloths  as  he  spoke,  and  exposed  to  view  a  kneehng  figure 
moulded  in,  clay. 

"An  angel !  "  exclaimed  Emily. 

"  No,"  said  John ;  "  I  mean  it  for  a  figure  of  Hope. 
You  see  it  looks  up,  and  has  wings  to  fly  upwards  with ; 
but  I  have  made  it  kneeling,  to  show  that  it  is  a  humble 
Hope.  It  keeps  looking  on  and  upwards  ;  but  though  its 
wings  are  spread  ready  for  flying,  you  are  to  think  that  it 
does  not  see  the  way  yet  to  what  it  wishes  to  reach,  and 
indeed  expects  to  reach  when  the  time  comes." 

"  You  should  have  put  an  anchor  beside  her,"  said  Em- 
ily, "  and  then  everybody  would  have  seen  what  she  was  ; 
however,  she  ha^  a  beautiful  face,  John,  and  she  makes  me 
see  what  a  diff"erent  sort  of  thing  your  hope  is  to  mine. 
Do  you  know,  I  believe  if  you  had  been  sent  to  school  asr 
you  wished,  you  would  never  have  made  the  figure  waiting 
to  fly  because  she  does  not  see  the  way." 


Emily's  Ambition,  329 

"  I  did  not  mean  to  put  anything  about  myself  in  the 
figure,"  said  John,  coloring. 

"But,"  continued  Emily,  "you  say  this  Hope  expects  to 
reach  whatever  it  is  looking  for,  when  the  time  comes." 

"She  would  not  be  Hope  if  she  did  not,"  said  John. 
'  "  And  yet  if  I  had  made  this  face,  I  should  not  have  let 
it  look  so  calm,"  said  Emily.  "  Folks  are  only  calm  when 
they  expect  and  wish  for  nothing  better  than  they  have 
got.  Now,  I  wish  and  expect  and  hope  for  a  great  deal 
that  I  have  not  got ;  and  the  more  I  do  so,  the  less  quiet 
I  am,  and  the  more  restless  I  grow.  John,  I  think  if  I 
had  been  you,  I  must  have  gone  to  learn  drawing  and  all 
those  fine  things  that  Mr.  Clements  offered  to  have  you 
taught.  I  can  see  that  it  was  your  duty  to  stay ;  but  if  I 
h#d  been  you,  I  am  sure  I  could  not  have  seen  it." 

"  They  must  have  gone  into  the  workhouse  if  I  had  left 
them,"  said  John. 

"  But  then  you  would  have  come  back  quite  a  different 
person,"  proceeded  Emily;  "and  by  this  time  it  would 
have  all  been  over,  and  you  would  have  taken  them  to  live 
with  you,  and  you  would  have  been  quite  a  grand  man  !  — 
we  should  all  have  been  looking  up  to  you." 

John  started  on  hearing  this  thoughtless  speech,  and 
said,  "  Should  you  have  looked  up  to  me  ?  —  should  you 
have  hked  me  better  then  ?  " 

Emily  blushed  ;  but  she  was  too  conscientious  to  let  her 
careless  words  do  harm,  and  she  forced  herself  to  say  :  "I 
should  not  have  respected  you  so  much  as  I  do  now  ;  and 
as  for  liking,  I  like  you  very  well  as  you  are,  —  we  are  very 
good  firiends.  And,  John,"  she  added  frankly,  "  if  you 
think  I  do  not  care  more  for  you  than  I  do,  just  because 
you  are  not  better  off,  and  not  getting  on,  you  are  mistak- 
en ;  for,  to  tell  you  the  truth,  I  really  expect  that  you  will 
get  on  far  better  than  I  shall  in  the  end." 

John  looked  up  surprised ;  but  he  shook  his  head  and 


330  Studies  for  Stories. 

laughed  at  her  remark,  and  said  she  must  be  making  sport 
of  him.  Still  he  was  pleased,  and  ventured  to  ask  her  if 
she  would  let  him  copy  her  hands  as  models  for  his  figure. 
"I  have  only  pictures  to  copy  from,"  he  observed,  "and 
Ihey  will  not  do.  Mother's  hand  has  got  rough  with  hard 
work,  so  I  have  been  obliged  to  leave  the  hands  till  I  could 
get  some  to  copy ;  and  if  you  would  hold  up  yours  in  this 
way,  it  would  be  such  a  help  to  me." 

Emily  said  she  would,  and  promised  to  come  and  sit  to 
him  the  next  half-holiday ;  and  then  she  went  home  feel- 
ing far  more  respect  than  she  had  ever  done  before  for 
poor  John,  and  wishing  she  could  follow  his  good  example ; 
for  she  had  sense  enough  to  perceive  his  simplicity,  his 
strong  feeling  of  duty,  and  his  industry,  while  at  the  same 
time  she  felt  and  acknowledged  to  herself  that  she  coijd 
not  make  up  her  mind  to  be  so  straightforward  in  the  pur- 
suit of  what  was  right  at  all  risks.  "  I  am  sure  I  could  not 
do  it,"  she  thought;  " and  what  a  good  thing  it  is  that  I 
have  no  call  to  give  up  an  advantage  for  the  sake  of  rela- 
tions and  parents  ! " 

On  the  appointed  evening  Emily  took  her  work  and  went 
to  John's  cottage  to  have  her  hands  copied  for  the  figure. 
She  knocked  at  his  mother's  door  about  five  o'clock  in  the 
afternoon,  but  John,  whom  she  had  expected  to  find  wait- 
ing for  her,  was  not  at  home  ;  he  had  gone  to  the  town  to 
fetch  some  medicine  for  his  father,  who  was  suffering  much 
from  pain  in  his  lame  hand. 

Emily  found  that  she  was  in  the  way,  for  the  sick  man 
was  very  fretful  and  restless ;  she  therefore  withdrew  to 
the  shed,  and  sat  down  on  a  bench  just  within  its  wide 
door,  taking  out  her  knitting  to  occupy  the  time.  There 
were  strange  things  in  this  shed ;  grim  old  stone  heads 
with  features  broken  and  defaced,  quaint  carvings  which 
had  been  brought  from  a  neighboring  church  to,be  copied  ; 
and,  standing  on  a  settle,  several  large  jugs  full  of  field- 


Emily  s  Ambition.  331 

flowers,  apple  boughs  with  fruit  on  them,  delicate  trailing 
tendrils  of  ivy  and  hedge  creepers  which  John  had  collected 
to  copy  his  carvings  from. 

The  floor  was  strewed  thickly  with  dust,  yet  the  shed 
looked  comfortable,  and  even  neat ;  and  the  kneeling 
figure,  which  John  had  set  ready  for  Emily's  visit,  seemed  to 
her  to  have  grown  more  beautiful  since  she  had  seen  it  last. 

"  It  is  all  very  fine,"  thought  Emily,  "to  be  able  to  make 
such  beautiful  things,  but  poor  John  will  not  earn  much  by 
this,  I  should  think;  —  let  me  see,  I  should  say  that,  if  I 
was  kneeling  down  in  that  position,  my  foot  could  not  be 
seen  by  any  one  standing  facing  me,  —  I'll  just  try. 

Emily  accordingly  knelt  down,  arranged  herself  and  her 
dress  as  nearly  as  she  could  in  the  attitude  of  the  figure, 
put  up  her  hands,  and  found  that  it  was  as  she  had  thought, 
—  the  foot,  unless  a  little  twisted,  could  not  be  seen.  Be- 
fore she  rose,  a  sudden  diminution  of  light  made  her  look 
up  to  a  hole  in  the  back  of  the  shed  which  was  roughly 
fitted  with  one  pane  of  glass.  She  saw  a  face  looking  in. 
It  was  not  John's  face,  and  she  started  up,  and  hastily  took 
her  work  and  sat  down  again  on  a  stool,  while  the  owner 
of  the  face  walked  round  the  shed  and  presented  himself  at 
the  door. 

Emily  looked  up  and  saw  an  elderly  gentleman  with  a 
pleasant  countenance  :  in  fact  he  was  smiling. 

"  Good  evening,"  said  the  gentleman,  "  are  you  John 
Mills's  sister?" 

"  No,  sir,"  rephed  Emily,  "  only  a  neighbor." 

"  I  am  come  to  see  the  figure  he  is  to  model  for  me. 
Ah  !  very  good  ;  did  the  boy  do  this  entirely  himself,  I 
wonder  ?    Very  good,  very  good  indeed,  poor  fellow." 

"  Yes,  sir,"  said  Emily,  who  supposed  that  she  was  ex- 
pected to  say  something. 

"You  take  an  interest  in  it,  I  see,"  said  the  gentleman, 
still  smiling:. 


332  Studies  for  Stories. 

*'  I  promised  John  that  I  would  sit  to  him  for  the  hands," 
said  Emily,  a  little  vexed  ;  "but  I  knelt  down  just  now  to 
see  whether  the  foot  was  right,  sir,  for  I  thought  it  was 
not." 

"  How  should  it  be,  poor  fellow,  when  he  has  had  no 
education  ?  ".  replied  the  elderly  gentleman.  "  No,  I  will 
do  what  I  can  for  him  ;  but  his  is  a  case  of  genius  wasted, 
talent  obscured  for  want  of  knowledge.  The  foot  is  wrong 
decidedly,  as  you  say,  but  the  face  is  exquisite." 

"  Yes,  sir,"  repeated  Emily. 

"  I  am  sorry  the  poor  fellow  is  such  a  fool,"  continued 
the  gentleman,  to  Emily's  surprise  ;  "  talk  of  duty  !  a 
man's  first  duty  is  to  himself.  Charity  begins  at  home  ; 
that  is  to  Say,  with  number  one.  Don't  you  think  so, 
young  woman  ? " 

"  No,  sir,"  replied  Emily. 

"  Well,  well,"  said  the  gentleman,  "  no  more  do  I ;  but 
really  it  is  such  a  shame  to  think  of  genius  like  this  lost 
and  wasted  for  want  of  training,  that  it  makes  one  talk  at 
random,  and  puts  one  out  of  temper.  He  '11  never  be  any- 
thing but  a  superior  sort  of  cabinet-maker  all  his  life  ;  he 
does  not  understand  the  first  principles  of  art." 

Emily  had  no  answer  to  make  to  this  :  she  went  on  with 
her  work,  and  was  considering  whether  she  could  with- 
draw, when  the  gentleman  who  had  been  scanning  John's 
model  with  great  attention,  turned  to  her  and  said  :  — 

"  Have  you  got  a  gown  made  of  any  kind  of  heavy  wool- 
len material  that  is  not  stiff  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir,"  said  Emily,  very  much  surprised. 

"  Well,"  he  answered,  "  if  you  would  do  me  the  favor  to 
put  it  on  and  come  here,  I  would  show  John  how  to  make 
these  folds  more  simple." 

Emily  was  very  good-natured,  and  therefore,  though  she 
would  rather  some  one  else  had  been  found  to  perform  the 
kind  office  for  John,  she  did  not  hesitate  to  go  home  and 


Emily  s  Ambitioft.  333 

take  out  her  winter  gown,  which,  though  neither  bright- 
colored  nor  new,  certainly  was  just  what  the  gentleman 
had  required :  it  was  very  heavy,  and  had  no  stifthess  in  it 

She  put  it  on,  and  came  back  to  the  shed,  where  she 
found  John  as  well  as  his  patron. 

"  Thank  you,  I  am  much  obliged  to  you,"  said  the  gen- 
tleman, "  that  is  exactly  what  I  wanted ;  now  \\\\\  you 
be  good  enough  to  place  yourself  in  the  attitude  of  the 
figure?" 

Emily  did  so,  and  the  heavy  clothing  fell  about  her,  as 
she  could  herself  see,  in  larger  and  more  simple  folds  than 
those  which  John  had  chosen  ;  she  continued  to  kneel 
while  John  stood  at  a  distance  with  his  patron,  who  pointed 
out  to  him  very  openly  the  defects  in  his  drapery,  and  de- 
sired that  he  would  remark  the  effect  of  the  evening  sun- 
light upon  it.  "  But  this,"  said  he,  "  is  such  a  little  place 
that  you  really  cannot  retire  far  enough,  either  from  your 
model  or  your  work,  to  see  how  they  look :  yours  is  indeed 
the  pursuit  of  art  under  difficulties  ;  however,  if  your  young 
neighbor  will  sit  to  you  frequently,  and  if  you  study  what 
books  you  can  get,  it  is  just  possible  you  may  do  some- 
thing worth  mentioning, — just  possible.  Well,  I  am 
pleased  with  the  figure  on  the  whole,  John.  If  your  young 
neighbor  will  allow  you  to  sketch  these  folds  before  she 
rises,  she  will  confer  a  favor." 

So  saving,  he  nodded  to  John,  made  a  little  bow  to 
Emily,  and  went  away. 

"Now,  John,"  said  Emily,  "if  you  wish  to  draw  my 
gown,  —  the  worst  and  ugliest  gown  I  have  got,  —  please 
to  be  quick,  and  begin." 

John  did  not  look  like  himself;  he  was  very  grave  and 
serious ;  even  Emily's  presence  did  not  seem  to  cheer 
him,  for  he  heaved  a  deep  sigh  as  he  went  to  fetch  a  coarse 
sheet  of  paper  and  a  carpenter's  red  pencil. 

"John,"  said  Emily,  "what  are  you  thinking  of — " 


334  Studies  for  Stories. 

John  repeated  Mr.  Clements's  words  :  " '  It  is  just  possi- 
ble you  may  do  something  worth  mentioning,  — just  possi- 
ble,' that  was  what  I  was  thinking  of,"  he  said. 

"  He  did  not  say  so  because  he  thought  you  wanted 
wits,"  said  Emily,  "but  only  because  you  had  not  had 
schooling  to  teach  you  how  to  do  this  sort  of  thing.  So 
you  neei[  not  be  so  desponding  ;  you  may  be  able  to  get 
good  instruction  after  all." 

"I  don't  expect  it,"  repHed  John;  "father's  hand  has 
been  very  bad  all  day  and  very  full  of  pain,  and  I  went  to 
the  doctor  for  his  medicine,  and  asked  what  he  thought  of 
the  case.  Says  he,  '  I  am  afraid  he  will  never>be  any  bet- 
ter ;  indeed  I  see  nothing  else  for  him  but  being  crippled 
in  his  hands  altogether.'  " 

"  I  am  sure  I  am  heartily  sorry,"  said  Emily. 

"  Mr.  Clements  is  very  good  in  ordering  things  of  me," 
observed  John  ;  "  but  I  hardly  know  how  it  is  ;  he  makes 
me  feel  miserable  after  he  is  gone,  at  least  till  I  have  had 
time  to  come  to  myself :  he  has  a  way  of  putting  things 
that  makes  the  things  I  wish  for  most  seem  to  be  a  duty, 
when  I  know  that  they  would  be  sins.  He  said  to-day : 
'Well,  young  man,  sometimes  I  think  I  must  give  you  up, 
for  you  have  neither  the  real  good  of  your  family  nor  your 
own  good  at  heart.  You  won't  be  at  the  trouble  of 
learning.'  " 

"  What  did  you  say  to  that  ?  "  asked  Emily. 

"  I  said  I  could  not  see  that  it  would  be  for  the  real  good 
of  my  family  to  go  to  the  workhouse.  'Yes,'  says  Mr. 
Clements,  *  it  would,  if  you  could  raise  yourself  in  the  mean 
time,  so  that  in  a  few  years  you  could  take  them  out  and 
make  them  a  handsome  allowance.'  " 

"  There  seems  something  in  that,  John,"  said  Emily ;  "  it 
does  not  sound  so  unkind  when  he  puts  it  in  that  way." 

"  He  said  to-night,  '  You  have  no  ambition,'  "  observed 
John.     " '  O  yes,  I  have,  sir,'  says  I ;  and  I  thought  to  my- 


Emily  s  Ambition.  335 

self,  though  I  would  not  say  it  to  a  gentleman  that  does 
not  seem  to  think  much  about  religion,  —  I  thought  that 
perhaps  he  would  give  me  up  altogether  if  he  knew  how 
many  times  a  day  I  said  over  to  myself  the  prayer  in  the 
Litany : — 

" '  From  all  blindness  of  heart,  from  pride,  vain-glory,  and 
hypocrisy,  Good  Lord,  deliver  us.' " 

Emily  did  not  answer.  John  went  on  diligently  drawing 
the  folds  of  her  gown,  and  presently  added :  "  That  prayer 
seems  to  me  sometimes  as  if  it  was  made  on  purpose  for 
me.  Blindness  of  heart  is  just  the  thing  that  comes  over 
me  when  I  want  to  go  to  that  school ;  everything  seems  to 
change,  and  I  can't  see  that  it 's .  my  duty  to  maintain 
father  and  mother,  nor  to  stop  and  finish  father's  work 
that  he  has  promised  and  cannot  do  ;  it  all  seems  as  if  it 
really  was  my  duty  to  go,  till  I  pray  that  I  may  be  de- 
livered from  the  blindness  ;  and  then  I  can  see  that,  if 
any  other  young  fellow  was  in  my  place,  I  should  think 
his  duty  was  plain  enough ;  but  I  did  not  mean  to  preach 
to  you,  Emily." 

The  evening  sun  was  now  going  down,  and  its  rays 
lighted  up  the  shed  and  the  jugs  of  flowers,  and  the  figure 
and  face  of  Emily  Welland,  as  she  knelt  quietly  with  her 
hands  folded  while  John  sketched  the  folds  of  her  gowj]^ 
She  was  very  silent,  and  her  face  became  serious  and 
thoughtful ;  indeed  she  was  thinking  much,  and  those 
thoughts  were  important  to  her  and  to  John. 

She  had  felt,  while  he  last  spoke,  how  far  more  upright 
and  earnest  was  his  mind  than  her  own  ;  she  had  also  felt 
that,  while  she  was  with  him,  her  worldly  and  ambitious 
views  and  wishes  for  herself  often  faded  into  the  back- 
ground. She  always  felt  herself  to  be  his  superior  as  far 
as  knowledge  went,  she  had  received  such  a  good  educa- 
tion ;  but  in  good  principle  and  a  desire  to  do  her  duty, 
she  was  so  sensible  that  he  was  her  superior,  that  she 


33^  Site  dies  for  Stories. 

could  not  be  with  him  for  an  hour  without  seeing  fresh 
proofs  of  it.  "  I  do  not  know  such  a  good  young  man," 
she  thought ;  "  and  as  for  hking  him,  I  really  think  I  shall 
never  find  another  that  will  come  up  to  him.  Did  n't  he 
say  the  other  day  that  he  had  never  wished  in  his  life  to 
marry  any  other  woman,  but  that  he  could  not  believe 
there  was  such  a  happy  lot  in  this  world  as  his  would  be 
if  he  could  win  me  ?  Well,  I  hke  him  very  much,  and  if 
I  did  marry  him  I  feel  sure  he  w^ould  make  me  better ;  but 
then,  —  there  would  be  an  end  to  all  my  hopes  of  rising.  I 
could  not  go  to  London  ;  I  should  be  a  poor  working-man's 
wife.  No,  I  must  not  do  it :  I  will  not  come  here  often, 
or  he  will  make  me  respect  him  and  like  him  so  much  that 
it  will  end  in  my  promising  to  marry  him.  I  am  sorry  he 
is  only  a  working  man ;  really  I  am  very  sorry  for  him, 
poor  John ! " 

"  Emily,"  said  John,  with  a  sigh,  "  it  is  finished  now ;  I 
am  very  much  obliged  to  you.  I  never  had  such  a  pleas- 
ant half-hour  before  ;  it  quite  made  me  forget  Mr.  Clements 
and  all  my  troubles  ;  but  the  drawing  is  finished.  What 
have  you  been  thinking  of  this  long  while,  Emily  ?  I  wish 
I  knew." 

"  I  have  not  been  thinking  of  anything  that  would  please 
you,"  rephed  Emily,  rising  and  gently  shaking  the  saw- 
dust and  shavings  from  her  gown.  "  Well,  as  you  have 
done,  John,  I  must  go,  for  grandmother  will  be  waiting  for 
her  supper." 

The  sun  was  now  getting  low,  and  just  as  the  last  sun- 
beam disappeared  from  her  face,  and  ceased  to  light  up 
the  shed,  his  mother  came  to  the  open  door,  and  told  him 
his  father's  hand  was  so  painful  that  he  must  go  again  to 
the  doctor  and  see  if  he  would  come  and  try  to  relieve  it. 

So  John  went  away :  and  as  Emily  stepped  out  into  the 
quiet  evening  air,  talking  with  John's  poor  care-worn 
mother,  she  felt  that  it  was  a  hard  thing  to  be  a  poor  man's 


Emily's  Ambition.  337 

wife,  and  see  him  disabled  and  not  capable  of  doing  any- 
thing for  her  and  his  children,  while  at  the  same  time  so 
much  of  her  time  was  occupied  in  nursing  him  Jhat  she 
could  not  go  out  herself  to  work  and  earn  something 
towards  their  support. 

The  next  day  poor  Mills  was  very  ill,  and  from  that 
time  for  five  weeks  he  lay  in  bed  suffering  with  rheumatic 
fever,  and  unable  to  feed  himself  or  turn  his  feeble  head 
on  the  pillow.  His  wife  and  his  son  spared  no  pains  to 
nurse  him,  and  denied  themselves  many  comforts  in  order 
to  pay  for  his  medicines  and  medical  attendance.  At  first 
all  looked  as  neat  and  comfortable  as  usual  about  them, 
but  as  time  wore  on  and  he  got  no  better,  the  garden  be- 
came full  of  weeds,  and  the  vegetables  were  left  to  run  to 
seed ;  the  Httle  girls,  instead  of  going  to  school  so  clean 
and  tidy,  began  to  look  ragged  and  forlorn  ;  John's  mother 
became  haggard  and  pale  with  watching  and  fatigue,  and 
John  himself  grew  thin,  his  cheeks  hollow,  and  his  eyes 
dim. 


338  Studies  for  Stories, 


CHAPTER    III. 


EMILY  did  not  see  Mrs.  Smalley  any  more  before 
she  left  the  town ;  and  as  she  had  to  teach  in  the 
daytime,  and  very  often  to  go  to  Miss  Cooper  also  in  the 
evening  to  receive  lessons  from  her,  she  had  not  very 
much  time  to  spend  in  thinking  about  leaving  her  present 
occupation  and  taking  to  dress-making ;  but  the  more 
she  did  think,  the  less  she  liked  that  a  situation  such  as 
Miss  Cooper  filled  was  to  be  her  ultimate  position  in  life, 
when  her  relation  lived  in  luxury,  and  had  so  many  ad- 
vantages and  pleasures. 

Poor  Emily !  she  did  not  know,  or  she  forgot,  that 
while  one  dress-maker  rises  to  riches  and  lives  in  luxury, 
five  hundred  struggle  with  poverty,  and  barely  earn  a 
maintenance. 

She  forgot  that  health  as  well  as  skill,  and  patrons  as 
well  as  industry,  were  wanted,  and  she  constantly  said 
to  herself,  "  Let  me  only  get  to  London  to  Mrs.  Smalley, 
who  has  no  child  to  leave  her  business  to,  and  I  will 
engage  to  be  a  good  workwoman ;  and  then,  if  I  make 
myself  useful  to  her,  she  may  get  fond  of  me,  and  I 
may  be  her  successor,  and  live  in  that  fine  house  of  hers, 
—  who  knows  ?  " 

By  frequently  thinking  thus,  she  brought  herself  to  be- 
lieve at  last  that,  let  her  only  find  her  way  to  Mrs.  Smalley, 
and  her  fortune  was  made ;  and  she  began  to  dislike  the , 
work  that  she  now  had  to  do,  and  to  think  that,  as  she  had 
made  up  her  mind  not  to  be  a  schoolmistress,  there  was 
no  need  for  her  to  prepare  so  industriously  for  the  exam- 
ination. 


Emily  s  Ambition.  339 

She  was  teaching  a  class  one  afternoon,  and  it  seemed 
to  her  that  they  did  not  read  so  well  as  usual.  The  little 
ones  spelled  the  words  and  lingered  over  them  till  she  be- 
came quite  tired  of  their  sounds.  It  was  part  of  her  duty 
to  question  the  children  on  the  texts  they  read.  When  the 
one,  —  "  And  having  food  and  raiment,  let  us  be  therewith 
content,"  had  been  finished,  she  proceeded  as  usual  to 
ascertain  whether  they  understood  it ;  while,  at  the  same 
time,  her  own  thoughts  continually  strayed  to  the  subject 
that  now  so  constantly  occupied  them. 

"  What  does  food  mean,  children  ?  " 

"  What  we  eat,  ma'am." 

"What  does  raiment  mean  ? " 

"  What  we  have  to  wear,  —  Sunday  clothes  and  work-a- 
day  clothes." 

"  What  does  content  mean  ?  " 

Silence  in  the  class. 

"  Come,  you  know  very  well ;  you  had  it  explained  to 
you  in  the  gallery  this  morning." 

"  It 's  what  we  all  ought  to  be,"  said  one. 

"  It 's  very  wicked  not  to  be  contented,"  remarked  an- 
other. 

"  Very  true,"  thought  Emily ;  but  she  added  aloud,  "  Tell 
me  the  texts  that  you  were  taught ;  perhaps  they  may  help 
you  to  explain  what  it  is  to  be  content." 

" '  Be  content  with  such  things  as  ye  have  :  for  He  hath 
said,  I  will  never  leave  thee,  nor  forsake  thee.'  It  means 
that  they  were  to  be  satisfied,  ma'am." 

"  To  be  sure ;  I  knew  you  could  tell  me  if  you  would 
give  your  mind  to  it.     Now  tell  me  the  other  text." 

"  '  For  I  have  learned,  in  whatsoever  state  I  am,  there- 
with to  be  content' " 

"  Who  said  that  ?  " 

"  St.  Paul  did,  ma'am." 

"  Ought  we  to  be  contented,  then,  as  he  was  ? "  —  «  Dear 


340  Studies  for  Stories. 

me,"  thought  Emily,  "  how  strange  that  I  should  have  to 
teach  them  this,  when  I  feel  so  differently  !  "  —  "  Ought  we 
to  be  contented,  children  ?  " 

"  Yes,  ma'am." 

"  Why  should  we  be  ?  Who  is  it  that  orders  how  much 
money  and  how  much  food  we  shall  have,  and  whether  we 
shall  be  laboring  folks  or  gentle-folks  ?  " 

"  God  does.     Everything  belongs  to  God." 

"  Then  God  could  easily  give  us  a  great  deal  more  than 
we  have  if  he  chose,  and  if  it  was  good  for  us  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sure." 

"  And  does  God  love  us  ?  " 

"  Yes,  ma'am." 

"  How  do  we  know  that  ?  " 

"  Because  he  gave  his  Son  to  die  for  us." 

"  Then,  if  it  was  good  for  us,  we  may  be  quite  sure  that 
he  would  give  us  more  ;  and  so  we  ought  to  be  content, 
because  God  knows  best,  and  he  has  only  given  us  a  httle." 

Emily  sighed  as  she  finished  her  lesson,  for  the  reason- 
ing did  not  content  her.  She  had  spoken  to  her  grand- 
mother respecting  her  wish  to  go  to  London,  and  had  told 
her  what  Mrs.  Smalley  had  said.  Rather  to  her  surprise, 
the  promise  given  that  she  should  be  received  and  taught 
dress-making  had  delighted  her  grandmother,  who  had 
said  at  once  that  she  should  like  it  to  be  accepted  as  soon 
as  she  was  out  of  her  apprenticeship. 

Emily  therefore  walked  to  the  Vicarage  when  school 
was  over,  to  tell  the  Vicar  her  determination  ;  and  as  she 
went  she  thought  of  her  own  lesson,  specially  of  the  last 
words,  "  because  God  knows  best,  and  he  has  only  given 
us  a  littleP  "  I  am  not  so  sure  of  that,"  thought  Emily ; 
"  I  do  not  believe  one  of  those  children  ever  wanted  a 
meal,  or  a  decent  suit  of  clothes  ;  they  are  at  school,  too, 
and  have  tolerably  comfortable  homes  ;  so,  while  they  are 
children,  they  are  almost  as  well  off  as  children  can  be.    / 


Emilys  Ambition.  341 

have  only  a  little,  for  I  know  of  so  much  more  ;  but  that 
has  nothing  to  do  with  the  duty  of  being  contented  ;  for 
St.  Paul  was  contented  even  when  he  suffered  want,  which 
I  have  never  done." 

Emily  reached  the  Vicarage,  and  asked  if  she  might  see 
Mr.  Ward.  Her  heart  beat  a  Httle  when  she  was  shown 
into  his  study  ;  but  she  managed  to  explain  her  errand, 
and  added  that  she  had  thought  it  her  duty  to  speak  thus 
early,  that  there  might  be  time  to  select  a  person  to  fill  her 
place. 

Mr.  Ward  looked  very  much  vexed,  but  he  said  not  a 
word  ;  and  Emily,  feeling  more  doubtful  as  to  whether  she 
was  doing  rightly  than  she  had  ever  felt  before,  went  on 
explaining  her  reasons,  till  she  began  to  see  that  they 
were  not  very  satisfactory,  nor  very  creditable  to  herself. 
At  last  Mr.  Ward  spoke  :  — 

"  You  have  quite  made  up  your  mind  to  this,  Emily 
Welland  ? " 

"Yes,  sir." 

"  Because,"  he  added,  "  this  dress-making  affair  seems 
to  me  to  be  a  sad  descent  in  Ufe  for  you,  —  what  people 
would  call  a  come-down." 

"  Sir !  "  exclaimed  Emily,  astonished  at  this  view  of 
the  case. 

"  It  may  be  your  duty  to  go,"  continued  the  Vicar  ; 
"  and  I  suppose  you  consider  that  it  is,  as  you  are  so  de- 
cided about  it.  If  so,  I  could  not  conscientiously  oppose 
it ;  but  if  not,  it  really  seems  to  me  to  be  throwing  away 
all  your  present  advantages,  and  lowering  yourself  for 
nothing." 

"  I  never  thought  it  was  a  duty,  sir  ;  nothing  of  the  sort," 
exclaimed  Emily. 

"  What  do  you  think  it,  then  ?  "  repHed  the  Vicar. 

"  An  advantage,  sir,"  said  Emily. 

"What !  to  be  a  needlewoman  ?  " 


342  Studies  for  Stories. 

'*  O  no,  sir ;  not  a  common  needlewoman.  I  should  be 
with  Mrs.  Smalley." 

"  But  you  would  have  to  begin  at  the  beginning,  would 
you  not  ?  " 

"  Of  course  I  should  have  to  learn  the  business,  sir." 

"  And,  as  you  have  already  learned  one  business,  to  be- 
gin another  would  be  throwing  yourself  back,  especially  if 
the  second  business  was  inferior  to  the  first." 

"  But,  sir,"  said  Emily,  "  if  the  second  did  not  suit,  I 
could  return  to  the  first." 

"  I  do  not  understand  much  about  feminine  occupations," 
replied  Mr.  Ward,  "  and  therefore  I  cannot  tell  whether 
dress-making  would  unfit  you  for  teaching ;  but  it  seems 
strange  that  you  should  wish  to  try." 

"  I  might  rise  to  be  Hke  Mrs.  Smalley,"  replied  Emily. 

"  The  person  who  called  on  me  about  a  gravestone  ?  " 

Mr.  Ward  did  not  intend  to  speak  slightingly,  but  his 
unintentional  mention  of  her  as  the  "  person  "  vexed  Emi- 
ly, for  it  made  her  see  that  he  had  not  been  deceived  for  a 
moment  into  supposing  that  she  was  a  lady. 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  Emily;  "she  is  my  cousin,  and  has 
made  a  good  property  by  dress-making." 

"  I  suppose  she  has  made  you  some  promise  of  taking 
you  into  partnership,  or  leaving  you  her  business,  as  you 
seem  so  anxious  to  throw  up  a  certainty  for  the  sake  of 
joining  her." 

"  O  no,  sir ;  she  only  said  she  would  teach  me  the  busi- 
ness." 

"  Well,  Emily  Welland,  you  must  do  as  you  please." 

"  Then  you  do  not  approve,  sir  ?  I  thought,  as  it  seemed 
a  rise  in  life  for  me,  you  would  think  it  my  duty  to  close 
with  it." 

"  We  diifer  as  to  whether  it  is  a  rise  ;  and  if  it  was,  that 
would  by  no  means  make  me  think  it  your  duty  to  accept 
it.     It  is,  as  you  know,  a  duty  to  fit  ourselves  for  the  sta- 


Emily  s  Ambition.  343 

tion  in  which  it  has  pleased  God  to  place  us.  It  may  be 
natural,  it  may  be  allowable,  it  may  be  advantageous,  to 
try  to  rise  from  it ;  but  in  this  case  I  cannot  see  the  duty. 
You  are  placed  where  you  are  by  Providence,  that  is  to  say, 
your  present  position  has  arisen  out  of  circumstances 
which  took  place  without  your  will  or  ordering.  As  a  little 
child  you  were  put  to  school ;  you  were  quick,  and  rose  to 
be  a  monitor ;  then,  as  you  were  not  strong  enough  for 
hard  work,  and  showed  an  aptitude  for  learning,  you  were 
made  a  pupil-teacher ;  then,  as  you  proved  apt  at  teaching, 
you  became  a  teacher,  and  looked  forward  to  being  a 
schoolmistress.  You  now  wish  to  break  away  from  your 
place  and  station,  and  step  into  a  different  sphere.  I  will 
not  say  anything  about  rising  or  sinking,  for  that  has 
really  nothing  to  do  with  the  matter.  You  wish  to  change 
your  occupation  ;  then  you  should  first  have  reason  to 
think  that  you  are  not  throwing  aside  work  which  Provi- 
dence has  assigned  to  you,  and  are  not  rashly  making  work 
for  yourself  which  it  was  never  intended  you  should  do." 

Emily  sat  silent  a  few  moments,  and  then  answered 
rather  despondingly :  — 

"  I  do  not  see  how  any  one  is  ever  to  rise,  or  to  change, 
sir,  if  it  is  not  right  to  do  it  without  being  sure  beforehand 
that  he  is  not  leaving  work  assigned  to  him  by  Provi- 
dence." 

"  I  will  show  you  what  I  mean.  If  teaching  had  not 
suited  your  health ;  if  you  had  found  that  you  had  no 
natural  power  to  manage  children,  and  could  not  acquire 
it ;  moreover,  if  you  had  felt  that  you  had  not  aptitude  for 
learning  the  things  required  of  you,  and  I,  feeling  it  too, 
had  asked  you  to  look  out  for  another  situation :  then,  if 
Mrs.  Smalley,  coming  here,  had  said,  '  Emily  Welland,  I 
will  teach  you  dress-making,'  I  should  have  said,  '  By  all 
means  go  with  her ;  here  is  a  provision  offered  to  you  in 
the  course  of  Providence.'  " 


344  Studies  for  Stories. 

Again  Emily  pondered ;  but  teaching  had  become  dis- 
tasteful to  her  now  that  she  had  some  definite  prospect  in 
view  to  take  its  place,  and  she  therefore  replied  that  she 
would  think  of  what  Mr.  Ward  had  said,  and  took  her 
leave. 

She  walked  home  in  no  very  pleasant  frame  of  mind, 
and  felt  especially  vexed  at  Mr.  Ward's  remark  as  to 
dress-making  being  no  rise  for  her.  "  Does  he  mean  to 
compare  Mrs.  Smalley,"  she  thought,  "who  dresses  in  the 
handsomest  silks  and  lace,  has  a  handsome  house  and  a 
footman,  and  such  plenty  of  money  that  she  even  talks  of 
retiring  and  hving  on  her  means,  —  does  he  mean  to  com- 
pare her  with  Miss  Cooper,  who  has  but  one  silk  gown, 
has  scarcely  saved  a  hundred  pounds,  and  works  as  hard 
as  a  servant  ?  Surely,  Mr.  Ward  must  be  joking,  or,  per- 
haps, as  he  has  taken  a  good  deal  of  pains  with  me,  he 
does  not  like  me  to  leave  the  school  just  as  1  am  beginning 
to  be  useful,  and  so  said  what  he  could  to  make  me  dislike 
dress-making." 

She  walked  up  to  her  grandmother's  cottage-door,  and 
was  met  by  the  old  woman,  who  asked  her  whether  she 
had  been  to  inquire  how  their  poor  neighbor  was.  "I 
hear  he  was  worse  yesterday,"  she  observed,  "and  Mr. 
Ward  came  to  read  with  him." 

Emily  turned  and  walked  up  her  neighbor's  garden  to 
the  cottage :  the  onion-beds  were  overgrown  with  weeds, 
and  the  cabbage-leaves  reduced  to  mere  skeletons  by  the 
multitudes  of  green  caterpillars  that  now  fed  on  them  un- 
disturbed ;  everything  told  of  neglect  and  poverty,  and  the 
dirty  bhnds  and  uncleaned  windows,  added  to  the  desolate 
appearance  of  the  place.  "  Poor  folks  !  "  thought  Emily, 
"  it  is  not  their  fault.  John  has  hardly  time  to  get  his  work 
done  and  run  errands  for  the  things  his  poor  father  wants, 
and  in  the  evenings  he  has  other  things  to  do  than  to  wetfd 
the  garden.    As  to  Mrs.  Mills,  I  wonder  how  she  contrives 


Emily  s  Ambition.  345 

to  sit  up  night  after  night.  It  is  plain  that  this  long  illness 
is  a  terrible  misfortune  to  them." 

Emily  tapped  at  the  door,  and  John's  mother  answered 
it,  and  coming  out  and  shutting  it  behind  her,  stood  out- 
side a  few  minutes  to  talk  to  her  young  neighbor.  She 
said  John  had  been  up  all  the  previous  night,  and  was  now 
asleep  ;  and  her  forlorn  appearance  and  weary  air  touched 
Emily's  heart,  but  at  the  same  time  she  thought,  "  Should 
I  look  Hke  this  in  the  course  of  years  if  I  married  John  ?  " 
for,  strange  to  say,  though  she  had  made  up  her  mind  not 
to  marry  him,  she  constantly  reasoned  with  herself  as  to 
the  propriety  of  thus  rejecting  him  in  a  manner  which 
showed  how  much  she  really  respected  and  liked  him. 
His  mother,  without  intending  it,  strengthened  Emily's 
resolution  that  evening  by  remarking  that  her  son  had 
been  obhged  to  pawn  his  best  clothes,  and  sell  some  of 
their  furniture,  in  order  to  pay  the  rent  and  the  doctor. 

Emily  was  sincerely  sorry  for  them,  and  as  she  went 
home  again,  and  saw  the  three  little  girls  bickering  to- 
gether under  the  walnut-tree,  and  one  of  them  fretting  and 
crying,  she  turned  aside  to  ask  what  was  the  matter. 

"  Sally  would  make  her  hands  all  black  with  pricking 
the  green  walnuts,"  observed  the  elder  child,  "  and  mother 
had  said  she  was  not  to  do  it,"  so  they  had  taken  them 
from  her. 

Sally,  a  stout  ruddy  little  girl  of  seven  years  old,  was 
very  sulky,  and  sat  shaking  her  shoulders  and  crying  ; 
her  hair  was  all  tangled,  her  frock  torn,  and  her  pinafore 
dirt}'. 

"  If  I  were  you,  instead  of  quarrelhng  out  here,"  said 
Emily  to  the  children,  "  I  should  ask  mother  to  lend  the 
little  tub,  and  I  should  wash  out  these  dirty  pinafores." 

"  Father  won't  let  us  be  in  the  house,"  said  the  elder 
child  ;  "  he  can't  abide  any  noise." 

"  You  might  set  the  tub  out  of  doors,"  repHed  Emily. 


34^  '      Studies  for  Stories. 

"  Mother  has  no  soap,"  was  the  quick  answer ;  "  she 
used  up  the  last  bit  washing  out  a  shirt  for  John." 

"  Well,  at  any  rate,  you  might  mend  Sally's  frock ; 
look  what  a  state  it  is  in  ;  a  great  girl  nearly  eleven  years 
old  ought  to  be  able  to  mend  all  the  younger  children's 
clothes." 

"Mother  said  she  would  see  to  them  herself  one  day," 
drawled  out  the  little  girl ;  and  a  squabble  beginning  again 
about  the  walnuts,  Emily  withdrew,  for  she  found  she  could 
not  make  any  impression,  and  was  shocked  to  see  what  a 
change  a  few  weeks'  neglect  had  made  in  these  once  or- 
derly and  cleanly  children. 

The  next  day  was  Sunday,  and  John  when  he  got  up 
dressed  himself  for  the  first  time  in  his  life  in  his  thread- 
bare working  clothes ;  his  father,  when  he  c^me  into  the 
living-room,  was  asleep  in  his  settle-bed.  His  mother, 
who  had  been  up  all  night,  was  also  sleeping  with  her 
weary  head  resting  on  her  arms.  John  sat  down  and 
looked  about  him  ;  he  felt  wretched,  and  so  low  in  his  spir- 
its that  when  the  eight  o'clock  chime  began  to  ring  he 
could  hardly  refrain  from  tears,  and  he  wished  it  was  'not 
Sunday.  "I  got  on  pretty  well  through  the  week,"  he 
thought,  "but  to  wear  these  old  fustian  clothes  to-day  is 
very  hard.  What  shall  I  do  all  day  ?  Go  to  church  I  can- 
not of  course  ;  and  as  to  books,  I've  none  —  that  I  have 
not  read  over  and  over  again,  now  that  I  have  left  off  sub- 
scribing to  the  Institute."  So  saying  he  got  up,  and  went 
softly  out  of  the  room  to  his  shed,  where  he  sat  wearily, 
looking  about  him  for  half  an  hour,  when  his  three  little 
sisters  came  in,  one  with  part  of  a  loaf  under  her  arm,  and 
a  second  with  a  teapot  in  her  hand. 

"  Mother  said  they  must  have  their  breakfast  in  the 
shed,"  they  told  him,  "for  father  was  then  asleep."  John 
cut  some  bread  for  them,  and  reached  down  a  mug  in 
which  were  some  branches  that  he  had  been  drawing  from, 


Emily  s  Ambition.  347 

washed  it,  and  gave  each  child  a  mug  of  the  cold  tea  from 
the  teapot ;  he  then  took  some  himself;  and  there  was 
something  so  desolate  and  sad  in  his  appearance,  that  the 
children  were  made  silent  by  it,  and  sat  quietly  before  him 
waiting  till  he  should  speak.  At  last  John  looked  up,  and 
his  face  cleared.  "  I  have  been  a  long  time  thinking,  but 
I  have  made  up  my  mind  now,  children,"  said  he.  "  It  is 
too  late  for  the  Sunday  school,  but  Polly  do  you  go  up 
stairs  and  get  your  Sunday  bonnets,  and  bring  a  comb 
to  make  your  hair  smooth,  and  I  shall  take  you  all  to 
church." 

Great  was  the  surprise  of  the  children.  John  go  to 
church  in  his  working  clothes  ?  they  could  not  have 
thought  it !  —  but  they  could  easily  go,  for  mother  had  not 
pawned  their  best  tippets,  and  there  was  one  clean  pina- 
fore yet  for  each  of  them  at  the  bottom  of  the  box  ;  so  they 
went  to  the  pump  in  the  garden  and  washed  their  hands 
and  faces,  that  their  father  might  not  be  disturbed  by  any 
noise  in  the  house ;  and  then  their  clean  pinafores  and 
tippets  and  their  decent  little  bonnets  were  brought,  and 
they  were  ready. 

When  John  saw  them,  he  thought  they  looked  better 
than  could  have  been  expected  ;  but  all  the  brushing  that 
he  could  give  to  his  clothes  did  not  make  him  look  like 
anything  different  to  a  working  man  in  a  very  shabby  suit 
of  working  clothes. 

"Giving  up  the  clothes  I  pawned,  seemed  nothing," 
thought  poor  John  ;  "  that  was  a  dut)^  to  father,  and  I  did 
not  grudge  it ;  but  to  ^o  to  church  and  show  myself  to 
everybody  just  as  I  am  now,  seems  the  hardest  duty 
that  ever  I  had  to  perform.  Come,  children,"  said  John 
aloud.  "  It 's  time  we  were  off ;  but  there  's  no  harm  in 
our  going  the  back  way." 

"  Lass,"  exclaimed  old  Mrs.  Welland,  as  she  was  taking 
off.  her  neat  black  bonnet  and  her  new  shawl,  after  the 


348  Sttidies  for  Stories, 

morning  service  ;  "  Emily  lass,  come  here,  there  's  John 
coming  up  the  garden  with  his  work-day  suit  on." 

"  Yes,  grandmother,"  said  Emily,  "  he  has  been  to 
church." 

"  Church  !  go  to  church  like  a  pauper  ?  " 

"  I  suppose  it  was  his  duty  to  go,  grandmother,  and 
his  mother  told  me  they  had  made  away  with  their  best 
clothes." 

"  Duty,  duty  ! "  repeated  her  grandmother  ;  "  don't  talk 
to  I,  Ellie.  If  folks  can't  go  respectable  and  decent,  they'd 
better  not  go  at  all." 

"  No,  grandmother,  you  don't  think  that ;  if  you  had  to 
pawn  your  best  things,  you  might  feel  that  you  would  not 
go  to  church  ;  but  surely  you  respect  them  that  will." 

"  The  girl  talks  Hke  a  good  book,"  replied  Mrs.  Welland, 
shaking  out  her  shawl,  and  folding  it  carefully;  "she  al- 
ways does  ;  but  wait  till  thy  Sunday  things  be  at  pawnshop, 
and—" 

"  And  see  what  I  shall  do,"  interrupted  Emily.  "  Why, 
grandmother,  I  don't  think  my  pride  would  let  me  go  and 
show  myself  as  John  did  this  rnorning;  but  for  all  that,  I 
know  he  did  right." 

John  did  not  know  that  as  he  walked  up  the  little  garden 
his  neighbors  had  observed  Mm  through  their  casement. 
The  fact  was,  John  was  much  more  comfortable  than  he 
had  felt  for  some  time  ;  he  had  gone  to  church  as  a  painful 
duty,  and  in  its  performance  his  obedience  to  the  demand 
of  conscience  had  been  rewarded  by  a  feeling  of  peace  and 
comfort,  that  made  him  wonder  he  had  been  so  much  cast 
down.  There  was  no  change  in  his  circumstances  ;  his  father 
was  still  very  ill,  his  mother  weary,  his  house  and  garden 
going  to  wrack,  and  poverty  creeping  upon  those  whom 
he  had  long  worked  for ;  but  his  heart  was  lightened,  and 
as  the  prayers  went  on,  often  texts  came  into  his  mind 
which  soothed  and  quieted  it,,  and  specially  one  which  was 


Emily  s  Ambition,  349 

still  consoling  him  as  he  walked  up  to  his  cottage  home,  — 
"  Casting  all  your  care  upon  Him,  for  He  careth  for  you." 

His  father,  when  he  entered,  was  rather  more  free  from 
pain  than  usual,  and  was  pleased  when  his  dutiful  son  gave 
him  an  account  of  the  sermon,  and  read  a  chapter  to  him 
while  his  wife  prepared  their  dinner. 

This,  though  not  what  they  had  been  accustomed  to  in 
their  better  days,  was  more  ample  than  they  could  afford 
on  ordinary  occasions  ;  and  when  the  sick  man  saw  it, 
and  saw  his  little  girls  neat  and  clean  as  of  old,  it  revived 
his  spirits,  and  he  said  he  would  sit  up,  and  try  if  he  could 
eat  a  little  with  them. 

In  the  afternoon  John  sent  the  children  to  the  Sunday 
school,  and  sat  with  his  father,  while  his  mother  went  and 
lay  down  to  sleep  on  the  children's  bed. 

It  was  well  that  John  had  that  quiet  Sunday,  and  that 
he  made  up  his  mind  early  to  go  to  church  in  spite  of  his 
shabby  clothes,  or  in  spite  of  his  fear  lest  Emily  and  her 
grandmother  should  look  upon  him  as  sinking  in  life  and 
losing  his  respectability.  If  he  had  yielded  to  temptation 
on  that  first  Sunday,  the  same  reason  would  have  existed 
for  his  absence  the  next,  and  the  next,  and  he  would  have 
lost  his  peace  of  mind,  a*id  all  the  comfort  that  he  derived 
from  worshipping  God  in  the  clothes  that  it  was  now  his 
duty  to  wear. 

For  the  next  two  months  no  contrast  could  be  greater 
than  that  between  the  circumstances  of  these  two  famihes. 
Comfort,  cleanliness,  order,  and  competence  in  that  of  the 
Well^nds's.  Misery  and  sickness,  poverty  and  disorder,  in 
that  of  the  Mills's. 

The  poor  suffering  father  became  fretful  and  hard  to 
please  ;  he  knew  that  his  illness  was  wearing  out  hi^  wife's 
health,  and  he  saw  his  son  grow  thinner  and  paler  every 
day,  while  he  was  often  disturbed  by  the  noise  made  in  the 
garden  by  his  neglected  children,  whom  he  could  no  longer 


350  Studies  for  Stories. 

afford  to  keep  at  school,  and  who  became  daily  more  fretful 
and  unruly  for  want  of  something  to  do,  and  some  one  to 
look  after  them. 

Emily  all  this  time  went  daily  to  the  school,  and  came 
back  in  the  evening  fresh  and  cheerful,  very  often  with  a 
parcel  in  her  hand ;  for  she  had  saved  a  few  pounds,  and 
was  now  spending  them  in  buying  for  herself  a  handsome 
assortment  of  new  clothes,  such  as  she  thought  would  do 
her  credit  with  Mrs.  Smalley. 

Often  and  often,  as  Emily  sat  at  work  in  the  now  short 
evenings,  John  Mills  saw  her  from  his  shed.  He  used 
to  work  there  with  a  common  lamp,  and  its  light  shining 
through  the  one  pane  of  glass  before  mentioned,  served  to 
remind  Emily  of  how  hard  he  worked,  and  how  late,  for 
she  often  went  to  bed  long  before  this  Hght  was  withdrawn. 
He  was  still  busy  on  his  figure  of  Hope.  But  it  was  Emily 
whose  heart  was  full  of  hope  ;  his  heart  sank  lower  daily 
at  the  prospect  before  him  and  his  parents,  and  he  often 
worked  far  into  the  night  with  a  trembling  hand  and  a 
stomach  faint  from  want  of  food. 

One  night  in  November,  after  dark,  some  one  rapped 
at  Mrs.  Welland's  door,  and  John  entered,  his  eyes 
sparkling,  his  cheeks  flushed,  and  his  whole  appearance 
excited  and  eager.  Emily  was  standing  up  holding  a 
pretty  pink  muslin  dress,  almost  too  light  and  gay  to  be 
serviceable  to  one  in  her  rank  of  life.  She  had  just 
finished  it,  and  as  John  came  in  she  was  saying  to  her 
grandmother,  "  That  is  a  good  thing  done :  I  am  sojglad 
I  have  finished  all  these  flounces."  John  thought  he  had 
never  seen  Emily  look  so  pretty  before,  for  she  too  was 
flushed,  and  her  eyes  sparkled  with  pleasure  as  she 
looked  at  the  dress. 

"  She  will  look  just  like  a  lady  in  it,"  he  thought,  and 
he  glanced  down  at  his  own  threadbare  garments  and 
shabby  shoes. 


Emily's  Ambition.  351 

"You  are  quite  a  stranger,  John,"  said  the  grand- 
mother kindly. 

John  could  not  answer  ;  he  had  not  wished  Emily  to 
see  him  with  unmended.  shoes  and  patched  coat,  and  had 
therefore  absented  himself  from  her  lately;  but  now  a 
sudden  feeling  of  triumph  had  made  him  forget  his  shy- 
ness for  the  time,  and  it  was  not  till  he  opened  the  door 
and  saw  the  comfort  that  reigned  within,  —  the  cosy  fire, 
the  pretty  Emily  with  her  new  dress,  and  the  grandmother 
frying  bacon  for  supper,  —  that  a  sense  of  his  inferior 
circumstances  and  the  poverty  and  distress  of  his  home 
made  him  feel  more  strongly  than  he  had  ever  done  be- 
fore, how  much  his  wished-for  wife  was  out  of  his  reach. 
"  I  have  finished  my  figure,"  he  at  length  stammered  out, 
-"  and  though  she  is  not  as  pretty  a  thing  to  look  at  as 
your  pink  dress,  I  thought  perhaps,  —  I  wished  you  would 
come  and  look  at  her,  Emily." 

"  I  will  to-morrow,  John,"  replied  Emily. 

"  Not  to-night  ?  "  asked  John,  "  do  come  to-night ;  I 
have  stuck  up  two  candles  to  light  the  shed,  and  she 
looks  much  better  by  candlelight  than  by  daylight." 

"Go,  Emmy,"  said  the  grandmother,  "and  John,  lad, 
do  thou  come  back  to  supper  with  us." 

In  the  days  when  John  was  more  prosperous  and  Emily 
less  ambitious,  she  would  not  have  been  so  willing  to 
comply  with  his  wishes  ;  but  there  was  something  so  sad 
in  his  gaunt  face  and  so  humble  in  his  manner,  that  she 
had  not  the  heart  to  refuse,  and  she  laid  aside  her  deli- 
cate mushn  gown,  and  put  a  shawl  over  her  head. 

It  was  a  very  mild,  calm  night,  and  Emily  stepped 
through  the  Httle  garden  over  a  carpet  of  poplar  leaves 
with  which  the  paths  were  covered,  greatly  to  their  ad- 
vantage, as  she  thought,  for  they  served  to  hide  the 
weeds.  John  had  borrowed  a  lantern  of  old  Mrs.  Wel- 
land,  and  he  held  it  low  as  Emily  walked  that  she  might 
not  tread  on  the  borders. 


352  Studies  for  Stories. 

John  had  gone  without  his  dinner  that  day,  and  spent 
the  twopence  that  it  would  have  cost  him  in  buying  four 
candles  to  hght  up  the  shed,  for  he  had  a  great  wish  to  see 
how  his  figure  would  look  by  candle-light.  Two  of  these 
candles  ^ere  set  in  rude  blocks  of  wood,  and  the  others 
were  held  by  two  of  his  httle  sisters,  who,  when  Emily  en- 
tered, were  standing  solemnly  just  where  he  had  placed 
them,  throwing  the  light  full  on  to  the  figure  of  Hope, 
which  was  set  in  its  usual  place  on  the  rough  wooden 
table. 

Emily  had  intended  to  say  something  kind  and  sympa- 
thizing to  John  about  his  work  that  had  cost  him  so  much 
trouble  and  care  ;  but  when  she  saw  it,  everything  she  had 
thought  of  went  out  of  her  head,  and  she  stood  gazing  at 
it  as  silent  and  motionless  as  the  children  with  the  lights. 

What  a  wonderful  circumstance,  that  out  of  all  his  mis- 
ery, poverty,  and  care,  should  have  come  that  snowy  white 
thing  with  a  rapturous  face,  hands  so  devoutly  folded,  a 
smile  so  calm  and  holy,  and  wings  that  seemed  to  Emily 
so  buoyant  and  ready  to  fly,  that  every  time  the  children's 
stirring  altered  the  shadows  on  them,  they  seemed  to  wa- 
ver and  move,  as  if  ready  to  spread  themselves  and  bear 
John's  beautiful  Hope  away  ! 

While  Emily  stood  fixed  in  surprise  and  admiration, 
John's  mother  came  in  and  said,  "  If  Mr.  Clements  does 
not  give  him  two  pounds  for  that,  I  shall  say  it  is  a 
shame." 

"O,  at  the  very  least  it  ought  to  be  two  pounds," 
echoed  Emily;  and  she  looked  at  John,  who  smiled. 

Emily  caught  the  meaning  of  the  look,  and  said,  "  You 
expect  more  ?  " 

"  I  would  take  less,"  answered  John  ;  "  but  I  am  sure  it 
is  worth  more." 

"  That 's  the  first  conceited  thing  ever  I  heard  thee  say, 
lad,"  observed  his  mother,  with  a  sigh. 


Emily  s  Ambition.  353 

"  I  did  not  say  I  expected  more  than  two  pounds,  moth- 
er," replied  John,  "  so  you  need  not  be  uneasy.  I  shall  let 
Mr.  Clements  have  it  if  he  only  gives  me  five-and-twenty 
shillings,  for  whatever  I  get^  for  it  will  be  extra.  I  have 
not  spent  one  regular  working-hour  upon  it  yet,  jvhen  I 
had  work  to  do." 

"  When  is  Mr.  Clements  coming  to  see  it  ? "  asked 
Emily. 

"  He  has  seen  it,"  said  the  mother ;  "  he  came  this  after- 
noon just  afore  dark,  when  John  was  out." 

"  And  what  did  he  say  ? " 

"  Said  nothing  good  nor  bad,  but  sat  on  the  block  star- 
ing at  it  and  whistling  to  himself,  till  my  poor  legs  ached 
with  standing  behind  him." 

"  Strange  man,"  said  Emily ;  "  did  n't  he  even  say  he 
Ukedit.?" 

"  Not  he,  but  sat  till  it  got  so  dusk  he  could  n't  see  it 
well ;  then  got  up  and  walked  out.  '  The  lad  has  done  it,' 
says  he,  '  and  I  'm  no  prophet.  Good  evening,  good  wom- 
an,' and  off  he  goes." 

"  Then  it  is  better  than  he  expected,"  said  Emily,  "  I  am 
sure  of  it." 

"  He  did  not  expect  that  he  would  be  so  quick  in  the 
carving  of  it,"  continued  the  mother  ;  "  he  has  only  had 
the  alabaster  three  months." 

"  I  should  have  been  a  vast  deal  longer  upon  it,  you 
know,  mother,"  said  John,  "  if  I  had  not  been  unfortunate- 
ly out  of  work  the  last  five  weeks." 

"  That,"  thought  Emily,  "  is  no  doubt  the  reason  why 
they  have  been  obliged  to  pawn  so  many  of  their  things," 
but  she  did  not  say  anything. 

John  continued.  "  It  has  been  in  hand  for  six  months, 
and  I  may  say  it  has  been  in  my  mind  for  two  years,  and  I 
have  drawn  something  like  it  over  and  over  again,  but  could 
not  get  it  to  my  fancy  ;  at  last  I  took  to  modelling  it,  and 

w 


354  Studies  for  Stories. 

then  I  was  ignorant  enough  to  be  pretty  well  pleased,  till 
Mr.  Clements  showed  me  so  many  faults." 

"  And  after  all  this  thinking  and  toiling  you  will  let  it  go 
for  two  pounds,"  interrupted  Emily  ;  "  why,  John,  that  is 
little  more  than  two  weeks'  wages." 

"  Two  pounds  would  pay  our  bread  bill,"  said  John, 
"  and  Mr.  Clements  will  show  the  figure,  and  try  to  get  me 
orders  for  more  ;  of  course  I  would  not  do  another  for  the 
same  sum  of  money,  but  while  this  first  one  stops  here  no- 
body sees  it,  and  no  good  comes  of  it." 

"To  be  sure,"  said  the  mother,  "whatever  Mr,  Clem- 
ents will  give,  that  John  should  take,  say  I ;  for  he  has  now 
got  the  promise  of  some  common  work,  and  that 's  regular 
wages,  much  better  than  toiling  and  wearing  out  his  strength 
with  making  fine  things  for  gentle-folks  ;  but  now  he  has 
had  his  way,  and  a  very  handsome  thing  he  has  made,  I 
will  say,  poor  boy,  though  I  was  always  against  his  med- 
dling with  those  fiddle-faddle  things  ;  I  would  a  deal  better 
see  him  cutting  common  mouldings  as  his  father  did  be- 
fore him." 

"  But  you  see,  mother,"  remarked  John,  "  I  am  very  am- 
bitious ;  I  am  not  content  to  do  common  work  ;  I  want  to 
do  the  best  kind  of  work  that  there  is  to  be  done  in  my 
calling,  and  I  want  to  do  it  in  the  best  kind  of  way." 

"  Well,  lad,"  retorted  the  mother,  "  I  wish  thou  was  n't 
ambitious  ;  as  far  as  I  can  see,  ambition  after  this  fine 
work  makes  thee  often  go  with  a  hungry  stomach." 

As  John  had  never  neglected  any  common  work  for  the 
sake  of  the  finer  sort,  and  had  walked  many  a. weary  mile 
lately  in  search  of  it,  he  felt  the  injustice  of  his  mother's 
speech ;  and  when  his  little  sister  said,  "  I  know  John's 
clemmed  *  to-night,  for  he  had  no  dinner,  and  that 's  all 
along  of  the  figure,"  he  felt  extremely  angry,  and  would 
perhaps  have  answered  sharply,  if  his  mother  had  not  add- 

*  "Clemmed"  —  pinched  with  hunger. 


Emilys  Ambition.     ,  355. 

ed,  "  I  must  go  to  the  father,  he  will  be  wanting  me  ;  and 
John,  lad,  don't  keep  the  candles  lighted  long,  they  will  last 
us  a  week  in  the  house." 

John  put  out  three  of  the  candles  as  she  spoke,  and  took 
the  fourth  in  his  hand  to  the  door. 

"Good-by,  Mrs.  Mills,"  said  Emily;  "John,  good-night, 
and  thank  you  for  a  sight  of  the  figure.  O,  I  forgot,  you 
are  coming  in  to  supper  with  us."   . 

"  No,  thank  you,"  said  John  ;  and  he  colored  and  looked 
so  thoroughly  vexed  and  ashamed,  that  Emily  could  not 
press  him  ;  she  knew  he  was  too  proud  to  come  and  satisfy 
his  hunger  at  their  table,  now  that  his  little  sister  had  said 
he  was  clemmed. 

"  Poor  lad ! "  thought  Emily,  as  she  reached  her  com- 
fortable bower,  and  turning  her  head,  saw  John  still  stand- 
ing in  the  open  doorway  of  the  shed,  with  the  candle  in  his 
hand  ;  "  poor  lad  !  he  looks  very  thin  and  pale.  What  is 
he  doing  now,  I  wonder  ?  " 

The  night  was  so  perfectly  calm  that  the  candle  burned 
in  John's  hand  quite  steadily,  and  its  light  enabled  Emily 
to  see  him  distinctly,  though  he  could  not  see  her ;  and 
she  watched  him  going  with  rather  an  eager  face  along 
the  little  path  that  was  strewed  with  poplar  leaves,  and 
picking  up  leaf  after  leaf  till  he  had  collected  a  handful. 

"  What  does  he  want  with  them  ?  "  she  thought ;  "  he 
cannot  make  a  supper  of  them ;  I  wish  he  could  ;  going  to 
carve  them,  I  reckon.  As  the  candle  shines  on  them  they 
look  as  yellow  as  gold."  She  went  in  and  ate  her  supper ; 
tlien,  before  going  to  bed,  went  out  of  doors  again  to  shut 
the  cottage-shutters,  and  then  saw  John  in  the  shed  with 
the  candle,  and  the  door  wide  open  ;  he  had  a  large  sheet 
of  paper  stretched  before  him  on  his  rough  easel,  and  she 
saw  that  he  was  intently  drawing  upon  it,  and  that  he  still 
held  the  leaves  in  his  left  hand. 

As  long  as  the  candle  afforded  him  light,  and  till  it  was 


356  Studies  for  Stories. 

burned  down  into  the  socket,  and  his  hands  were  chilled 
with  the  night  air,  John  went  on  with  his  drawing,  and 
when  he  at  length  crept  into  the  cottage  he  felt  glad  and 
elated,  though  very  hungry ;  and  he  fell  asleep  pleased  to 
think  that  one  thing  he  had  worked  at  was  finished  as  well 
as  he  knew  how  to  do  it,  and  that  another  was  begun 
which  promised  to  be  better. 

'■'■  I  quite  forgot  to  ask  how  John  was  getting  on  with 
poor  old  aunt's  monument,"  said  Emily  the  next  morning 
to  her. grandmother.  "Not  getting  on  at  all,"  was  the 
reply.  "And  then  Emily  heard,  to  her  surprise,  that  John, 
having  told  Mrs.  Smalley  he  could  not  afford  to  buy  the 
stone  for  the  work,  she  had  said  that  when  he  was  ready 
to  begin  carving  she  would  advance  the  money  for  it. 
Accordingly  John  had  written  some  time  before  this  to 
say  that  he  was  ready  to  begin,  and  that  a  letter  had, 
after  a  long  delay,  been  sent  back,  written  by  one  of  the 
assistants  in  the  business,  and  that  it  declared  Mrs.  Smalley 
to  be  far  too  much  engaged  to  attend  to  the  matter  at 
present,  but  that  she  would  write  when  she  was  at  lib- 
erty. 

"  His  mother  told  me  so  yesterday,"  observed  Mrs.  Wel- 
land.     "  It  shows  what  a  power  of  business  she  has." 

"  Yes  ;  but  it  shows  that  she  forgets  what  consequence  it 
is  to  poor  folks  to  be  paid  at  the  proper  time,"  said  Emily. 
"  Now,  all  the  time  that  John  has  been  out  of  work  he 
might  have  been  finishing  the  monument."  As  Emily 
was  soon  about  to  place  herself  with  Mrs.  Smalley,  she 
was  particularly  sorry  to  fmd  that  she  was  careless  and  in- 
considerate in  fulfilling  her  promises,  and  she  several  times 
made  inquiries  as  to  whether  the  money  had  arrived,  but 
always  with  the  same  result. 

There  is  no  need  for  me  to  describe  all  that  took  place 
in  these  two  families  till  Christmas-time  ;  it  is  enough  to 
say  that  Emily  worked  hard,   both  at  her  examination 


Emilys  Ambition,  357 

papers  and  her  clothes  ;  and  when  the  Christmas  holidays 
began,  she  was  spoken  of  by  Miss  Cooper  as  the  most 
promising  and  clever,  as  well  as  the  best-informed  pupil- 
teacher  that  she  had  ever  had  under  her  care.  "  She 
would  be  sure  of  a  first-class  certificate  if  she  would  keep 
to  her  present  employment,"  said  Miss  Cooper  ;  "  indeed, 
she  is  quite  fit  to  take  my  place  even  now." 

But  no  ;  Emily  had  done  her  duty  by  her  scholars,  and 
had  completed  the  course  of  instruction  appointed  for  her. 
She  did  not  intend  to  do  anything  further,  and  when  the 
examiner  commended  her,  and  paid  over  to  her  what  she 
had  earned,  she  thanked  him,  and  went  home  resolved 
never  to  enter  the  school-room  any  more. 

It  cost  her  some  pain  to  take  leave  of  Miss  Cooper,  and 
of  those  children  whom  she  had  brought  on  in  their  learn- 
ing ;  but  she  did  it,  shut  the  school-house  door  after  her, 
came  home  with  the  money  in  her  pocket,  and  began  with 
her  grandmother  to  calculate  what  it  would  cost  her  to  go 
up  to  London. 

The  same  night  a  letter  was  written  to  Mrs.  Smalley, 
who  had  said  that  she  could  receive  Emily  at  any  time, 
but  should  require  two  days'  notice  ;  and  now  all  seemed 
to  smile  on  the  industrious  girl.  All  her  new  clothes  were 
ready ;  her  books  were  in  excellent  order ;  "  And  no 
doubt,"  thought  Emily,  "  I  shall  have  time  for  reading 
and  improving  myself;  all  I  have  to  do  is  to  buy  myself 
two  boxes,  pack  up  my  things,  and  take  leave  of  my 
friends." 

But  it  so  happened  that  the  next  day,  when  old  Mrs. 
Welland  went  to  the  farmer's  wife  for  whom  she  sold  but- 
ter, she  sat  down  in  the  kitchen,  and  related  Emily's  inten- 
tion of  leaving  the  town  for  London  ;  and  the  farmer's  wife 
observed  that  it  was  a  long,  long  journey  for  a  young  girl  to 
take  alone. 

"  O,  she  is  a  steady  girl,"  said  the  farmer.     "  But  it  is  a 


35 S  Studies  for  Stories. 

mighty  long  way,  and  she  will  get  in  just  at  night,  and 
London  is  full  of  sharpers  and  thieves,  as  we  all  know.  I 
would  not  let  her  go  all  alone  if  she  was  mine  ;  she  may 
be  robbed  at  the  station,  she  may  get  her  pocket  picked, 
and  nobody  knows  what  mischief" 

"What  you  do  say,  sir,  be  terrible  true,"  repHed  the 
grandmother. 

"  There  's  Mr.  Glover  the  ironmonger  going  up  the  day 
after  to-morrow,"  observed  the  wife  ;  "why  shouldn't  she 
go  with  him  ?  I  '11  engage  to  say  he  would  see  her  into  a 
cab  with  her  boxes." 

"  Is  it  so  far  that  she  cannot  walk  to  Mrs.  Smalley's  ?  " 
asked  old  Mrs.  Welland. 

"  Bless  you,"  said  the  farmer,  "  she  can't  walk  five  or 
six  miles  in  London  as  she  might  do  hereabouts  ;  and 
what  is  to  be  done  with  her  luggage,  if  she  did  ?  'No,  no  ; 
depend  on  it  she  ought  to  go  with  somebody  that  knows 
London  ;  do  you  speak  to  Mr.  Glover,  and  it  will  be  all 
right." 

So  the  grandmother  did  speak  to  Mr.  Glover,  who 
seemed  to  think  it  was  highly  necessary  that  a  young 
country  girl  like  Emily  should  have  somebody  to  look 
after  and  protect  her,  and,  though  he  made  a  great  favor 
of  it,  he  said  he  would  see  her  safe  to  London,  and  put 
her  and  her  boxes  into  a  cab,  if  requested. 

When  Emily  heard  of  this  she  was  very  sorry,  for  she 
wished  to  have  an  answer  from  Mrs.  Smalley  before  she 
set  off,  and  she  did  not  like  to  start  from  home  in  such  a 
hurry ;  however,  her  grandmother  drew  such  a  picture  of 
the  terrors  of  London,  as  represented  both  by  the  farmer 
and  the  ironmonger,  that  she  consented  to  go  with  the  lat- 
ter, and  began  to  pack  up  her  things  in  haste,  and  not 
without  a  little  sinking  at  heart. 

Old  Mrs.  Welland  could  not  read,  and  as  she  was  too 
proud  to  ask  her  neighbors  to  read  letters  to  her,  she  de- 


Emilys  Ambition.  359 

sired  Emily  every  fortnight  to  send  her  an  old  newspaper, 
or  a  little  tract,  or  anything  of  the  sort  that  she  had  by 
her  that  would  come  for  a  penny,  and  as  Mr.  Glover  was 
only  going  to  remain  in  London  a  week,  she  calculated  on 
hearing  of  Emily's  safe  arrival  from  him. 

If  Emily  could  have  stayed  till  nine  o'clock  on  the  third 
day  after  she  had  written  to  Mrs.  Smalley,  she  might  have 
had  an  answer  ;  but  unfortunately  the  cheap  train  by  which 
she  and  Mr.  Glover  were  going  started  at  seven.  It  was 
quite  dark  when  she  came  out  of  the  cottage  door,  after 
giving  her  good  old  grandmother  a  hearty  hug,  and  ran 
down  the  cottage  garden  to  wait  for  the  omnibus.  John 
Mills  was  standing  there  ;  he  had  carried  her  boxes  down 
for  her,  and  was  now  waiting  to  help  in  putting  them  on 
the  omnibus  when  it  should  arrive.  A  third  box  was 
standing  beside  them,  and  that,  John  told  her,  contained 
his  figure.  It  was  going  up  to  London,  by  Mr.  Clements's 
orders,  by  that  morning's  train. 

Emily,  in  her  large  comfortable  shawl,  her  neat  merino 
dress,  and  nice  bonnet  with  its  little  net  veil,  looked  the 
picture  of  health  and  youthful  beauty  as  she  stood  out 
there  in  the  early  daylight ;  but  John,  in  his  threadbare 
clothes,  and  with  his  thin  face,  looked  hardly  fit  to  be  her 
companion.  Notwithstanding  this,  he  could  not  help  say- 
ing to  her  :  "  Would  there  be  any  chance  of  your  hking 
me,  Emily,  if  I  got  on,  and  we  got  over  these  troubles  ?  " 
But  Emily  shook  hands  with  him  and  said  :  "  John,  I  hope 
you  won't  talk  in  that  way ;  I  do  hke  you,  but  I  shall  never 
be  anything  but  a  friend  to  you."  As  she  said  this  the 
omnibus  drove  up,  the  boxes  were  put  on  the  roof,  Emily 
set  off  for  London,  and  John  went  back  to  his  shed. 


360  Studies  for  Stories. 


CHAPTER    IV. 


IT  was  a  wet  Christmas  that  year,  and  during  her  long 
journey  Emily  saw  little  of  the  scenery  that  she  passed 
through.  The  winter  day  closed  early,  and  it  had  been 
dark  three  hours  when  they  at  length  arrived  at  the  station, 
and  Emily  found  herself  in  London. 

The  noise  and  confusion  at  first  bewildered  her,  and  she 
was  glad  she  had  no  harder  task  to  perform  than  to  stand 
by  her  boxes  while  Mr.  Glover  got  a  cab  for  her.  In  spite 
of  the  pushing  and  jostling  of  passengers,  who  were  dis- 
tracted because  a  box  or  a  bundle  was  not  yet  forthcoming, 
and  in  spite  of  the  civil  "  By  your  leave  "  of  the  porters, 
as  they  pushed  past  their  luggage-barrows,  she  contrived 
to  stand  quietly  till  her  good  friend  came  to  her,  got  the 
boxes  put  on  the  cab,  handed  her  in,  gave  directions  to  the 
driver,  and  shook  hands  with  her. 

She  was  now  alone,  and  the  cab  began  to  move  through 
London  streets  ;  the  brilliant  lights,  the  splendid  shops, 
the  crowding  passengers,  dazzled  and  delighted  her  ;  but 
she  felt  very  anxious  as  to  her- reception  by  Mrs.  Smalley; 
and  moreover,  she  feared  her  boxes  would  be  wet  before 
they  reached  their  destination.  Almost  every  street  they 
turned  into  Emily  said  :  "  I  wonder  whether  this  is  it  ?  I 
wonder  whether  this  is  where  Mrs.  Smalley  lives  ? "  but 
no ;  on  they  went,  till  all  the  shops  were  gone,  and  rows 
of  private  houses  succeeded.  These  were  very  handsome, 
but  looked  cold  and  inhospitable,  with  all  their  windows 
shut  and  curtains  drawn  against  the  world  without ;  but 
the  longest  street,  even  in  London,  has  its  last  house,  and 


Emilys  Ambition.  361 

at  the  last  of  these,  ma  particularly  long  street,  the  driver 
stopped  at  length,  and  thundered  at  a  remarkably  impos- 
ing-looking door. 

"  Dear  me  !  "  thought  Emily,  "  I  wish  he  would  not 
make  such  a  noise.  I  hope  Mrs.  Smalley  won't  be 
angry." 

Emily  looked  up  at  the  large  blank  house,  and  then  at 
the  pavement,  on  which  rain  in  such  quantities  had  been 
splashing  all  day,  that  it  was  washed  quite  clean  from  the 
dirt  and  blacks  of  London,  and  shone  with  broken  and  un- 
certain reflections  of  the  street  lamp. 

The  driver  knocked  again,  and  Emily  noticed  that  this 
house  differed  from  most  that  she  had  passed,  in  having  no 
lamp  in  the  hall :  at  last  a  dim  light  was  visible  inside, 
and  the  door  was  half-opened  by  a  particularly  dirty-look- 
ing servant,  with  a  black  cap  on,  and  curl-papers  beneath  it. 

"  Dear  me  !  "  thought  Emily  :  "  I  suppose  the  footman 
only  answers  the  door  to  Mrs.  Smalley's  grand  customers. 
What  a  dirty  servant  for  such  a  grand  house  !  However, 
she  had  not  much  time  for  reflection,  she  paid  the  driver, 
and  ran  up  the  steps,  asking  humbly :  — 

"  Do  you  know  whether  Mrs.  Smalley  expects  me  ?  " 

The  woman  looked  confused,  and  as  the  driver  was  al- 
ready setting  Emily's  boxes  within  the  door,  she  said :  — 

"  What 's  these  for  ?  I  reckon  you  've  mistook  the 
house  ? " 

Emily  now  found  that  she  was  a  little  hard  of  hearing, 
and  repeated  her  question  :  — 

"  Does  Mrs.  Smalley  expect  me  ?   Is  she  at  home  ?  " 

"  Mrs.  Smalley  ?  "  repeated  the  woman  ;  "  why,  miss,  she 
has  left  this  two  months." 

"  Left !  "  repeated  Emily,  shocked  and  frightened.  "  I 
did  not  know  that ;  please  tell  the  cabman  to  wait.  I 
must  go  on  to  her.  Do  you  know  where  she  has  moved 
to?" 

16     • 


362  Studies  for  Stories. 

*'  No,  nor  nobody  else,"  replied  thc-woman,  coolly. 

"  Then  I  can't  go  to  her  to-night,"  said  Emily,  fright- 
ened^ and  feeling  all  the  desolateness  of  her  situation. 
"  Oh  !  what  shall  I  do  ?  Please  let  me  come  inside  for  a 
moment ;  I  shall  be  quite  wet." 

"  If  you  want  the  cabman,  you'd  better  say  so  at  once," 
observed  the  woman,  "for  he's  just  a  driving  off.  There, 
you're  too  late  ;  that  gentleman  has  called  him." 

"  Please  let  me  stand  inside,"  pleaded  Emily,  "  till  I  can 
consider  what  to  do ;  the  lady  will  not  object  to  that,  will 
she  ? " 

"  Lady,  there's  no  lady.  The  house  is  empty,  and  I  am 
put  in  to  take  care  of  it.  You  may  stand  in  the  'all,  if  you 
like,  for  a  few  minutes." 

Emily  came  in  and  stood,  the  picture  of  perplexity  and 
distress.  The  woman  stood  beside  her,  with  her  greasy  tin 
candlestick  in  her  hand,  which  she  tapped  every  few  mo- 
ments impatiently  with  the  door-key  ;  Emily  looked  up  the 
desolate  uncarpeted  staircase,  still  strewed  with  shaving- 
like lengths  of  paper  and  wisps  of  hay,  in. which  the  furni- 
ture had  been  packed,  and  said :  — 

"  Surely  you  can  remember,  or  find  out  for  me,  where 
Mrs.  Smalley  has  moved  to ;  it  must  be  somewhere  at  this 
end  of  London,  on  account  of  her  business." 

"  It's  nothing  of  the  sort,"  replied  the  woman,  impatient- 
ly. "  Mrs.  Smalley  is  not  to  be  found  anyhow ;  she  has 
run  away  from  her  creditors." 

"  Run  away  !  "  repeated  Emily,  aghast. 

"  I  said  run  away  plain  enough,  young  woman,"  repeated 
the  dirty  warder  of  the  house.  "You  need  not  stare  Uke 
that.  She  could  not  pay  her  debts.  They  say  she  spec- 
'lated  in  railways  ;  however,  one  fine  day  Madame  was  oif, 
and  the  baiUffs  came  in ;  and  there  has  been  a  sale,  and 
that'  s  all  I  know  about  it." 

The  rain  spattered  and  splashed  outside,  and  the  dirty 


Emily  s  Ambition.  363 

candle  guttered  inside.  Emily  was  wet,  weary,  hungry, 
and  altogether  cast  do^^^l,  and  she  said  to  the  woman,  — 

"  Would  you  be  so  kind  as  to  let  me  sit  by  your  fire,  and 
give  me  something  to  eat  ?  I  could  pay  for  it,  and  for  a 
bed,  if  you  would." 

Perhaps  the  rough  housekeeper  found  Emily's  voice  per- 
suasive ;  perhaps  she  pitied  her  distress  and  admired  her 
youth  and  beauty ;  for  she  certainly  softened  her  voice  a 
little,  and  said,  less  gruffly,  — 

"Well,  I've  been  a- washing  to-day,  and  the  place  ain't 
to  say  comfortable,  but  you  may  come  and  sit  by  the  fire, 
if  you  like.     O  yes,  you  may  come." 

How  different  was  everything  she  saw  and  heard  from 
what  her  fancy  had  so  frequently  pictured  !  Here  was  a 
London  underground  kitchen  hung  with  wet  clothes,  a 
huge  range  screwed  up  to  its  narrowest  proportions,  and 
those  not  half  filled  with  a  smouldering  fire.  All  the  light 
was  afforded  by  the  one  candle,  which  had  shown  her  the 
empty  hall  and  the  desolation  up  stairs.  Emily  sat  and 
shivered  and  pondered.  Tired,  hungry,  and  dispirited, 
what  could  she  do  ?  She  earnestly  hoped  that  she  should 
not  be  turned  out  that  night,  and  when  her  entertainer 
agreed  to  let  her  share  a  very  uncomfortable  and  by  no 
means  clean-looking  bed  that  stood  in  one  corner  of  the 
ample  floor,  she  felt  truly  thankful,  and  asked  for  some- 
thing to  eat,  which  was  set  before  her  on  consideration  of 
her  paying  for  it. 

Emily  ate  and  drank,  then  sat  with  her  feet  on  the  fen- 
der, and  pondered  again  till  the  woman  was  ready  for  bed  ; 
but,  tired  as  she  was,  she  could  not  rest  during  this  her 
first  night  in  London.  The  dull  noise  of  distant  vehicles, 
the  rattle  of  those  that  passed  the  house,  her  own  self- 
reproaches  and  regrets  that  she  had  been  over-persuaded 
to  come  up  to  London  before  an  answer  had  been  received 
from   Mrs.  Smalley :    all  these  things  together  kept  her 


364  Studies  for  Stories. 

waking  till  morning  should  have  appeared,  but  it  dawns 
very  late  in  a  London  kitchen  in  December ;  and  when, 
after  one  hour's  sleep,  she  awoke,  roused  by  h^r  compan- 
ion, who  was  dressed,  she  heard  to  her  astonishment  that 
it  was  eight  o'clock,  and  saw  that  the  darkness  was  then 
sufficient  to  make  them  dependent  on  the  welhknown  dip 
candle. 

The  woman  casually  remarked,  that  it  was  rather  a  foggy 
morning  ;  and  Emily,  looking  out,  had  her  first  experience 
of  a  London  fog,  which  to  her  surprise  changed  from 
amber  to  brown,  and  from  brown  to  a  greenish  grey,  more 
than  once  before  their  cheerless  breakfast  was  over. 

After  breakfast,  Emily  said  she  would  go  and  endeavor 
to  obtain  a  situation  with  some  other  milliner,  as  Mrs. 
Smalley  had  failed  her.  But  as  hour  after  hour  wore  on, 
and  she  could  hardly  discern  the  opposite  houses,  her  com- 
panion declared  that  it  would  be  highly  dangerous  to  go 
out,  for  she  would  infallibly  lose  herself ;  and  Emily, 
though  sorely  against  her  will,  felt  that  her  present  asylum, 
dismal  as  it  was,  was  better  than  having  her  last  night's 
experience  over  again.  So  she  sat  lamenting  her  haste  in 
coming  up  to  London,  till,  the  fog  becoming  more  white, 
she  had  light  enough  to  see  to  read,  and  got  out  a  book, 
with  which  she  beguiled  the  time  till  dinner  was  ready, 
and  after  that,  as  some  bread  was  wanted,  she  insisted  on 
accompanying  her  hostess  to  fetch  it  from  the  baker's.  So 
dismal  a  walk  she  had  never  taken  ;  the  fog  hemmed  them 
in,  and  she  felt  as  if  her  country  lungs  could  hardly  breathe 
in  it ;  but  at  least  it  was  new  and  strange,  and  when  they 
turned  out  of  their  own  street  into  one  which  was  crowded 
with  people  and  full  of  shops,  she  was  bewildered  and  yet 
pleased  with  all  she  saw ;  with  the  grand  windows  lighted 
up  as  if  it  was  night,  and  even  with  the  people  who  pressed 
past  her  showing  their  shrewd  pale  faces,  and  then  vanish- 
ing in  the  fog.     She  did  not  walk  a  quarter  of  a  mile,  but 


Emily  s  Ambition.  365 

could  not  help  being  glad  that  her  companion  had  not 
suffered  her  to  go  out  by  herself,  and  when  they  reached 
the  emptyifiouse  again,  she  was  really  thankful  for  the 
shelter  it  afforded. 

Emily  was  to  pay  half  of  what  the  various  articles  for 
their  meals  had  cost.  There  was  a  piece  of  beefsteak, 
some  tea,  some  bread,  a  cabbage,  and  some  potatoes. 
Emily  set  these  items  down  on  a  slate,  and  put  her  hand 
in  her  pocket  to  draw  out  her  purse.  It  was  not  there, 
and  she  looked  towards  her  work-box,  saying :  — 

"  I  must  have  left  it  behind  me." 

"  No,  you  did  n't,"  said  the  woman ;  "  for  I  remember 
particularly  saying  to  you,  '■  take  a  shilling  or  two  in  your 
pocket,  but  don't  take  all  your  money  if  you  have  much ' ; 
and  says  you,  '  No  ;  I  may  want  more  than  that,'  and  you 
put  the  purse  in  your  pocket." 

Emily  searched  again  ;  it  was  certainly  gone. 

"  Surely,"  said  the  woman,  "  you  never  walked  about  in 
that  fog  without  minding  your  pocket  ?  "  . 

"  I  never  thought  of  my  pocket,"  said  Emily,  "  and  I 
don't  believe  in  such  a  dark  day  anybody  could  find  the 
pocket-hole." 

"  Why,  what  's  this  ?  "  asked  her  companion.  "  Dear, 
dear,  I  never  gave  it  a  thought  to  tell  you  to  mind  your- 
self; I  thought  you  'd  sense  to  watch  over  your  own  earn- 
ings. Look  here,  they  've  been  and  cut  a  hole  in  your 
gown,  and  got  a  hand  through  it,  and  carried  the  purse 
clean  off,  as  I  'm  a  Christian  woman ! " 

At  first  Emily  could  hardly  beheve  that  so  great  a  mis- 
fortune had  happened  to  her.  She  started  up,  declaring 
that  the  purse  might  have  been  left  in  her  work-bag;  it 
might  have  been  dropped  on  the  floor ;  but  after  several 
fruitless  searches,  it  became  too  evident  that  she  had  been 
robbed,  and  she  sank  down  on  her  chair  quite  pale  with 
agitation,  and  sat  motionless,  till  her  companion  at  last 
roused  her  by  asking  the  color  of  the  purse. 


366  Studies  for  Stories. 

"Was  it  purple  leather  or  green?"  she  said. 

"  What  does  that  matter  now  ?  "  muttered  Emily. 

"  Matters  a  great  deal,"  was  the  reply ;  "  because  I  'm 
going  off  to  the  police-court  about  it." 

Emily  roused  herself,  and  seeing  her  companion  already 
dressed  in  her  shawl,  and  pinning  her  bonnet-strings, 
thanked  her,  gave  the  required  description,  and  added :  — 

"  But  it 's  no  use  telling  the  police,  Mrs.  Smart.  I  feel 
sure,  now  that  I  come  to  think  about  it,  that  the  purse 
was  stolen  while  we  were  pressing  up  to  the  pastry-cook's 
window  to  look  at  those  cakes  ;  and  there  was  nothing  in 
it  but  money ;  no  note  or  post-office  order  that  might  be 
known  again.     O  dear  me  !  O  dear  !  " 

"  Well,  well,  child,  don't  cry  and  take  on  ;  pickpockets 
are  taken  up  sometimes  with  the  things  they  stole  upon 
them ;  so  don't  give  way." 

So  saying,  Mrs.  Smart  walked  off,  and  Emily  wept  at 
her  leisure.  She  was  naturally  hopeful,  and  even  when  she 
found  that  Mrs.  Smalley  had  failed  her,  she  consoled  her- 
self by  thinking  that  she  could  get  a  situation  with  another 
milliner,  or  she  could,  if  that  proved  impossible,  come 
home  again  when  the  Christmas  holidays  were  over,  take 
her  papers  to  the  diocesan  examination  at  Salisbury,  and 
give  up  her  dream  of  making  a  fortune  as  a  London  milH- 
ner.  But  now  she  had  no  money  wherewith  to  return,  and 
her  pride  was  deeply  wounded  at  the  notion  that  she  could 
not  return  to  Dorsetshire  without  selling  those  handsome 
clothes  which  she  had  bought  in  order  to  fit  herself,  as  she 
supposed,  for  her  new  sphere.  No;  she  felt  that  she 
could  not  and  would  not  dO  that.  She  must  stay  in  Lon- 
don, at  least  till  she  had  earned  enough  to  go  home  with  ; 
but  in  the  mean  time  she  must  live.  She  owed  Mrs.  Smart 
two  shillings  and  fourpence ;  she  must  get  her  to  take  pay- 
ment in  the  shape  of  some  article  of  clothing,  and  she  must 
get  work  at  once,  —  to-morrow,  whether  the  day  was  foggy 
or  fine. 


Emilys  Ambitioft.  367 

Mrs.  Smart  soon  came  back ;  she  was  kinder  to  Emily 
than  could  be  expected,  considering  that  she  was  quite  a 
stranger  to  her.  She  told  het  that  till  she  got  work  she 
might  have  her  bed  free  of  charge,  provided  she  could  pay 
for  her  food  :  coals,  candles,  and  house-room,  she  received 
for  her  trouble,  as  well  as  a  small  weekly  sum, 

"  So  you  are  welcome  to  stop,  young  woman,"  she  ob- 
served, with  condescending  kindness,  "  for  I  find  it  lone- 
some being  here  by  myself,  specially  o'  nights." 

Emily  was  grateful  for  this  kindness,  but  felt  how  much 
she  had  already  come  down  in  the  world,  when  a  dirty  and 
ignorant  woman,  such  as  Mrs.  Smai't,  could  lay  her  under 
an  obligation,  and  treat  her  with  patronizing  pity. 

That  night,  weariness  made  her  sleep  in  spite  of  sorrow, 
and  the  next  morning  was  tolerably  fine,  and  the  buoyant 
spirits  of  youth  in  part  returned  to  her,  and  she  dressed  her- 
self neatly  and  w^ent  out  early  to  seek  for  a  situation.  Mrs. 
Smart  had  counselled  her  to  ask  her  way  only  of  the  police- 
men whom  she  would  see  from  time  to  time,  and  by  no 
means  to  remain  out  till  it  became  dusk.  She  also  told  her 
that  there  were  no  less  than  three  milliners  in  a  street  very 
near  at  hand,  and  having  given  her  ample  directions  as  to 
how  she  should  find  it,  she  shut  the  door  after  her,  and 
poor  Emily  went  forth  alone  to  seek  her  fortunes.  She 
could  not  well  be  robbed  now,  for  she  had  nothing  in  her 
pocket,  and  she -thought  she  could  not  well  fail  in  finding 
work  in  a  place  which  contained  such  multitudes  of  em- 
ployers. 

The  winter  day  wore  on,  and  though  Mrs.  Smart  had 
charged  Emily  not  to  be  late,  the  lamplighter  was  in  the 
street  when  she  answered  the  door  and  let  her  in.  Wet, 
pale,  and  weary,  she  came  in  without  a  word,  closed  her 
dripping  umbrella,  and  sat  down  in  the  dim  kitchen,  as  she 
had  not  spirit  or  strength  enough  left  to  divest  herself  of 
her  out-of-door  dress. 


368  S  hi  dies  for  Stories. 

"  Had  aught  to  eat,  child  ?  "  asked  Mrs.  Smart. 

Emily's  shivering  figure  drew  itself  up,  and  she  seemed 
to  shrink  from  being  questioned,  but  when  asked  again, 
she  answered,  "  No." 

"  Well,  the  tea  will  be  ready  in  a  minute.  Got  a  situa- 
tion yet  1 " 

"  No,"  repeated  Emily. 

"  I  did  not  expect  you  would,  child,  in  such  a  hurry. 
Dear  me,  some  folks  expect  situations  to  come  in  crowds 
the  minute  they  wants  'em,  just  as  black  beetles  come 
when  it  gets  dusk  like." 

Emily  knew  to  her  sorrow  that  the  illustration  of  the 
black  beetles  was  not  drawn  from  the  good  woman's  imag- 
ination, but  from  her  familiar  daily  life  ;  indeed,  while  she 
spoke  a  large  one  peeped  from  a  crack,  and  came  on 
briskly  towards  Emily's  foot. 

She  started  up  with  more  alacrity  than  even  the  pros- 
pect of  a  home  could  make  her,  in  order  to  get  out  of  the 
way  of  her  black  fellow-lodger,  and  as  she  wearily  walked 
to  her  box,  and  took  off  and  deposited  therein  her  bonnet 
and  cloak,  she  listened  with  languid  patience  to  Mrs. 
Smart's  moral  sentiments,  which  went  to  prove  that  she, 
Mrs.  Smart,  thought  that  young  people  ought  not  to  ex- 
pect too  much,  seeing  that,  as  far  as  it  appeared,  they 
never  got  more  than  a  little  ;  however,  they  ought  to  think 
themselves  well  off  when  they  had  a  good  house  over  their 
heads  that  never  was  built  for  them,  nor  such  as  them. 
"A  house,"  continued  Mrs.  Smart,  wandering  from  the 
point,  "  that  has  five  bed-rooms  and  two  dressing-rooms, 
let  alone  parlors  and  pantries,  and  what  not,  and  which  is 
now  empty  entirely,  along  of  them  railways,  which  is  the 
greatest  conveniency  that  ever  was  for  them  that  want  to 
travel,  and  I  wish  there  was  more  of  them.  Now,  child, 
come  to  your  tea." 

Emily  drew  her  chair  to  the  table,  and  as  she  drank  the 


Emily s  Ambit io ft.  369 

steaming  tea,  and  ate  the  bread  and  butter,  her  fainting 
spirits  revived  a  little,  and  the  color  returned  to  her 
cheeks. 

"  It 's  a  little  strange,  too,"  observed  Mrs.  Smart,  "that 
you  could  not  meet  with  any  work,  child,  for  this  is  a  busy 
time,  and  most  of  the  houses  very  full  of  work." 

"  I  could  have  got  work  if  I  had  been  wiUing  to  do  it  for 
almost  nothing,"  said  Emily.  "  I  've  been  sent  away  for 
all  sorts  of  reasons.  One  said  she  never  took  young  girls 
to  teach,  —  they  were  more  trouble  than  they  were  worth  ; 
and  one  said  she  should  expect  a  premium,  and  pay  me 
nothing  for  the  first  six  months  ;  and  another  said  I  did 
not  look  as  if  I  should  suit ;  and  the  last  offered  such  a 
little  for  a  day's  work,  that  I  could  not  pay  you  for  my 
food  with  it ;  and  I  saw  a  good  many  who  would  have 
nothing  to  say  to  me.'* 

"  You  're  too  high,  child,  too  high  by  half  You  don't 
look  like  a  prentice  girl ;  and  you  speak  so  fine,  and  dress 
so  smart,  that  they  don't  know  what  to  make  of  you,"  re- 
pHed  Mrs.  Smart.  "  Now,  if  I  was  you,  I  would  rather 
work  for  sixpence  a  day  than  sit  idle  here  like  a  fine  lady." 

Emily  sighed  bitterly,  and  felt  with  keen  shame  that, 
though  this  advice  was  most  distasteful  to  her,  Mrs.  Smart 
had  a  full  right  to  offer  it,  for  she  was  giving  her  that  tea, 
and  allowing  her  to  run  in  debt  for  her  food. 

She  sat  silent,  however,  and  could  not  assent  to  the 
remark  that  it  was  better  to  work  for  sixpence  a  day  than 
be  idle  like  a  fine  lady.  Fine  lady,  indeed,  in  a  dirty 
kitchen,  and  about  to  sleep  in  a  dingy  bed  ;  fine  lady, 
without  a  penny  in  her  pocket,  or  a  friend  within  two 
hundred  miles  of  her,  or  any  prospect  but  hard  work,  or 
any  hope  out  to  return  speedily  to  the  very  occupation  she 
had  considered  so  much  beneath  her  ! 

The  downward  path  in  hfe  is  always  easy;  when  once 
descent  begins,  it  is  not  only  hard  to  rise,  but  hard  to  pre- 
16*  X 


370  Studies  for  Stories. 

vent  the  further  decline.  Poor  Emily  found  this  to  her 
cost ;  she  went  out  several  days'  in  search  of  work,  but 
did  not  succeed  in  getting  any  that  she  thought  it  worth 
her  while  to  take.  She  had  no  money,  and  by  degrees 
the  contents  of  her  boxes  had  been  disposed  of,  —  some 
to  Mrs.  Smart,  some  to  the  pawnbrokers  in  the  neighbor- 
hood, —  till,  by  the  time  she  had  been  a  month  in  London, 
she  had  not  enough  of  her  good  outfit  left  to  bring  in 
money  for  a  journey  home  ;  and  the  chance  work  she  had 
done  from  time  to  time  had  only  served  to  show  her  how 
hard  was  the  work  of  a  London  seamstresss.  It  had  not 
occurred  to  her,  when  first  she  took  a  shawl  to  the  pawn- 
shop, that  it  would  be  difficult  to  get  it  out ;  and  this  way 
of  raising  a  little  money  seemed  so  easy,  —  moreover,  she 
did  not  particularly  want  the  shawl,  —  so  it  went ;  and  she 
got  taken  on  as  an  "  extra  hand  "  at  a  very  grand  millinery 
estabhshment,  where  the  wages  were  not  very  bad  ;  and 
when  by  the  day  that  she  had  saved  enough  to  take  her 
things  out  of  pawn,  she  determined  to  leave  that  part  of 
London,  and  go  and  apply  for  a  situation  at  the  office  of 
the  Home  and  Colonial  Schools  Society. 

Emily  did  not  know  what  she  should  have  to  undergo 
as  an  "  extra  hand  "  ;  she  found  it  hard  to  sit  up  night 
after  night  till  two  or  three  o'clock,  finishing  the  endless 
wedding  orders,  or  mourning  orders,  or  ball-dresses,  which 
poured  in  upon  the  fashionable  milliners,  and  had  been 
positively  promised  for  so  early  a  day  that  it  seemed 
impossible  that  the  promise  could  be  kept. 

Day  after  day,  as  the  over-dressed  and  pompous  head 
of  the  house  sailed  into  the  workroom,  Emily  heard, 
with  a  sinking  heart,  "  I  would  n't  disappoint  Lady  W. 
on  any  account ;  that  blue  silk  dress  must  go  home  punc- 
tually at  six  o'clock.  Let  the  cerise  tarlatan  be  put  in 
hand  immediately,  as  well  as  the  white  and  amber ;  Lady 
Georgiana  was  positively  promised  that  she  should  have 


Emily s  Ambition.  371 

them  both  to-night,  in  time  for  Mrs.  A.'s  reception,  that 
she  may  choose  which  she  likes  best.  That  mourning 
order  ought  to  be  in  a  greater  state  of  forwardness  ;  the 
young  people  cannot  go  home  till  it  is  finished." 

Being  only  an  extra  hand,  Emily  had  to  return  to  her 
home  at  whatever  hour  of  the  night  the  work  was  fin- 
ished ;  and  as  the  heated  workroom,  with  its  unwholesome 
atmosphere,  made  her  feverish  and  weak,  the  sudden 
change  to  night  air,  rain,  snow,  or  fog,  had  a  very  bad 
effect  on  her  constitution  :  she  became  pale  and  thin,  and 
her  eyelids  heavy  and  red  with  overwork  and  bad  light, 
and  her  gait  stooping,  from  constantly  bending  over  her 
task. 

"There's  a  letter  for  you,"  said  Mrs.  Smart,  as  she 
opened  the  door  to  her  one  evening  in  March. 

Emily  took  it  with  great  pleasure  ;  it  was  the  first  letter 
from  home.  She  saw  that  it  was  in  John  Mills's  hand- 
writing, and  addressed  to  her  at  Mrs.  Smalley's. 

"  He  does  not  know  of  my  present  circumstances,"  she 
thought ;  and  she  took  the  letter  down  and  read  it  with 
avidity :  — 

"  Dear  Miss  Welland,  —  Your  grandmother  has  felt 
very  unwell  this  past  week,  and  last  night  had  the  doctor ; 
but  he  does  not  seem  to  think  there  is  very  much  the 
matter  with  her,  —  at  least  he  said  he  saw  no  reason  why 
she  should  not  recover.  She  does  not  think  so  herself, 
for  she  told  my  mother  she  was  sure  she  was  taken  for 
death,  and  she  wished  she  could  see  you  ;  so  I  said  I 
would  write,  and  I  was  to  say  that  if  Mrs.  Smalley  could 
spare  you  she  would  take  it  very  kind. 

"  I  feel  that  you  may  think  it  odd  I  cannot  call  you 
Emily,  but  I  know  there  is  a  great  difference  of  station 
between  us  now,  and  you  are  living  in  luxury  while  I  am 
only  a  workman,  so  I  began  this  without  taking  the  liberty 


372  Studies  for  Stories. 

to  write  your  Christian  name,  and  now,  for  fear  you  should 
misunderstand,  I  must  tell  you  why. 

"  You  have  such  a  kind  heart  that  I  know  you  will  be 
glad  to  hear  of  father  being  better,  so  that  now  he  can  sit 
up  all  day  and  amuse  himself  with  netting ;  and  as  for  me, 
I  sent  up  the  figure  that  you  know  of,  and  Mr.  Clements 
wrote  me  word  that  a  gentleman  he  knew  had  valued  it  at 
fourteen  pounds,  *  which,'  said  he,  'is  more  than  I  expected, 
and  it  is  not  convenient  to  me  to  give  such  a  sum  for  it, 
therefore  I  have  sent  it  to  be  disposed  of  at  that  price.' 
Would  you  believe  that  I  should  be  so  well  off.  Miss 
Welland  1  A  great  lady  saw  it  and  bought  it,  and  Mr. 
Clements  has  forwarded  me  the  money,  so  now  all  our 
debts  are  paid,  and  what  is  better,  I  have  got  an  order  for 
another  figure  from  the  same  cast. 

"  I  have  not  heard  anything  from  Mrs.  Smalley  respect- 
ing the  monument ;  and  if  you  should  find  an  opportunity 
to  mention  it  to  her,  I  should  be  very  much  obliged  to 
you. 

"  Perhaps  I  may  be  in  London  before  long,  for  as  soon 
as  I  have  carved  this  new  order  I  shall  have  money  in 
hand  to  last  the  family  for  seven  weeks,  and  therefore  I 
think  I  shall  have  a  right  to  leave  them  for  that  time  ;  and 
I  think  of  walking  up  to  London  to  see  whether  I  can  imx- 
prove  myself  or  get  higher  wages  than  I  now  earn.  I  shall 
not  take  the  liberty  to  call  on  you  unless  I  hear  that  it 
would  be  agreeable,  for  I  know  I  have  no  chance  with  you, 
and  I  would  not  wish  that  you  should  think  me  trouble- 
some, though  I  shall  always  be,  as  long  as  I  breathe,  your 
faithful  lover,  John  Mills." 

Emily  read  this  letter  over  and  over  again.  She  was 
made  very  uneasy  by  the  account  of  her  grandmodier,  who 
would  scarcely  hav£  asked  to  see  her  unless  she  had  firmly 
believed  herself  to  be  dying.     But  to  go  to  her  was  out  of 


Emily  s  Ambition.  373 

the  question.  Her  work  did  not  quite  pay  for  her  board, 
and  her  clothes  were  slowly  diminishing.  She  had  been 
nine  weeks  in  London ;  nine  weeks  divided  between  hard 
work  and  the  scarcely  less  hard  work  of  seeking  for  it. 
She  knew  that  return,  for  the  present,  was  impossible,  and 
she  went  to  her  task  the  next  morning  with  a  heavy  heart, 
intending  to  write  to  John  by  the  next  day's  post,  —  not  to 
tell  him  how  gladly  and  thankfully  she  would  return  if  she 
had  the  means,  but  to  beg  him  to  send  her  further  particu- 
lars, and  to  give  her  love  and  duty  to  her  grandmother. 

She  left  work,  however,  so  late  on  Saturday  night,  that  it 
was  Sunday  morning  before  she  reached  home.  Another 
letter  from  John  awaited  her,  —  a  long,  considerate,  and 
most  kind  letter ;  and  she  thought  so  herself  as  soon  as  she 
could  see  to  read  it  for  her  tears.  Her  grandmother  had  died 
quietly  very  soon  after  the  first  letter  had  been  posted,  and 
her  son  and  daughter  had  been  sent  for  from  the  village  in 
the  neighborhood  where  they  lived  ;  they  had  taken  pos- 
session of  what  the  good  woman  had  left,  and  had  accepted 
John's  offer  to  write  and  give  Ernily  an  account  of  her 
death.  Moreover,  they  had  sent  word  that  Emily  had 
better  stop  where  she  was,  and  not  think  of  spending 
money  in  coming  home,  as  there  was  nothing  for  her  to 
do.  A  very  fulsome  message  to  Mrs.  Smalley  was  also 
conveyed  by  John  from  the  said  son  and  daughter,  and  a 
humble  request  that  she  would  permit  their  mother's  name 
to  appear  also  on  the  much-talked-of  monument. 

It  was  well  for  Emily  that  the  next  day  was  Sunday  ;  it 
gave  her  time  to  shed  her  natural  tears  over  her  kind  old 
grandmother,  and  to  write  to  John. 

She  now  felt  that  she  had  no  tie  to  Dorsetshire,  no  ob- 
ject in  returning,  that  she  was  thrown  entirely  on  her  own 
resources,  must  work  for  her  bread,  and  strive  earnestly  to 
rectify  the  mistake  she  had  made,  and  rise  again  into  the 
position  she  had  lost. 


374  Studies  for  Stories. 

As  a  proof,  however,  that  adversity  had  not  been  with- 
oijt  its  use,  she  hesitated  long  between  pride  and  a  desire 
to  be  sincere ;  and  at  last  sincerity  so  far  triumphed,  that 
she  told  John  she  felt  sure  he  would  never  hear  from  Mrs. 
Smalley  respecting  the  monument,  for  that  Mrs.  Smalley 
was  not  able  to  pay  her  just  debts,  but  she  added,  —  partly 
to  save  John  from  anxiety  respecting  her,  partly  from  a  de- 
sire to  keep  her  altered  circumstances  from  her  little  world 
in  Dorsetshire,  —  "I  am  with  quite  as  grand  a  milliner  as 
Mrs.  Smalley  ever  was,  and  one  who  employs  more  work- 
people." 

So  much  she  could  say  with  truth  ;  the  rest  of  her  ex- 
perience she  left  unsaid,  but  she  added  several  expressions 
of.  friendship  for  John,  which  that  kind-hearted  fellow 
prized  highly,  and  which,  if  he  could  have  known  how  Em- 
ily's mind  was  turning  to  him  in  her  trouble,  and  how 
much  more  highly  she  thought  of  him  than  she  had  done 
in  her  prosperity,  he  would  have  prized  still  more. 

And  so  John  was  getting  on,  and  rising  slowly  out  of 
that  poverty  and  distress  in  which  she  had  seen  him ; 
John,  whose  conscientious  scruples  had  •  prevented  him 
from  taking  one  doubtful  step,  and  who  had  suffered  so 
patiently,  not  only  poverty,  but  the  want  of  that  teaching 
which  alone  as  it  had  seemed  could  enable  him  to 
rise  ;  John  was  likely  to  have  it  at  last,  and  could  have 
it  lawfully. 

Emily  thought  much  of  this  ;  she  repented  of  that  crav- 
ing ambition  which  had  made  her  formerly  so  discontented 
with  her  lot,  and  she  now  felt  that  needlework  was  but  a 
poor  exchange  for  the  pleasure  of  teaching,  and  the  com- 
fort of  being  able  to  make  some  use  of  that  love  of  order 
and  talent  for  governing  children,  which  all  who  possess 
invariably  wish  to  exercise,  especially  when  they  have  once 
had  the  opportunity  of  doing  so. 

"  Let  me  only  get  my  things  out  of  pawn,"  was  her 


Emily  s  Ambitio7i.  375 

thought,  "  and  I  will  apply  for  a  situation  at  one  of  the 
schools  in  London,  or  I  will  even  venture  to  set  up  a  day- 
school  of  my  own."  But  week  after  week  wore  on,  and  in- 
stead of  taking  her  goods  out  of  pawn,  more  and  more  had 
got  into  the  hands  of  the  pawnbroker,  for  the  simple  reason 
that  she  never  got  enough  regular  work  to  enable  her  to 
pay  for  her  board.  At  last,  in  despair  of  ever  earning 
wages  to  pay  for  her  food,  she  resolved  to  bring  her  food 
down  to  the  level  of  her  wages  :  a  natural  resolution,  but 
not  wise,  for  poor  Emily  was  not  accustomed  to  the  Lon- 
don air  and  the  late  hours,  and  the  close  application  that 
she  now  had  to  submit  to,  and  when  to  these  she  added  a 
meagre  diet,  she  soon  found,  not  that  denying  her  appetite 
made  her  hungry,  but  that  she  could  not  eat  even  what  she 
provided,  and  left  at  every  meal  some  of  her  bread  and  of 
the  two  or  three  radishes  which  she  had  substituted  for 
butter,  meat,  or  cheese. 

She  was  getting  out  of  debt  to  Mrs.  Smart ;  but  this  did 
not  give  her  the  pleasure  she  expected,  and  a  degree  of 
sleepiness  was  creeping  over  her  which  made  her  often  sit 
at  work  in  a  half  doze.  A  kind-hearted  companion,  who 
sat  next  to  her,  took  pains  to  keep  her  awake,  at  least 
when  any  of  the  superiors  of  the  house  came  in ;  but  Em- 
ily dozed  again  as  fast  as  she  was  awakened,  and  one 
evening,  happening  to  be  dismissed  early,  she  was  con- 
scious of  a  degree  of  drowsiness,  even  in  the  street,  which 
it  required  all  her  little  strength  to  resist. 

O  how  welcome  was  the  shade  of  the  desolate  hall, 
and  the  repose  of  the  dingy  bed,  after  the  light  and  noise 
of  the  street !  -  Emily  felt  that,  come  what  would,  now  she 
must  rest;  and  the  next  day,  though  conscious  of  repeated 
assurances  from  Mrs.  Smart  that  she  would  be  late  for  the 
workroom,  she  fell  away  from  one  doze  to  another,  and 
wished  for  nothing  but  to  lie  quiet,  and  drink,  whenever 
she  woke,  a  long  draught  of  water. 


3/6  Studies  for  Stories. 

At  last,  late  in  the  afternoon,  a  sharp,  distinct  voice  de- 
cidedly woke  her. 

"  Sleep,  sir  ?  she  does  nothing  but  sleep,  and  for  the  last 
ten  days  she  has  eaten,  as  one  may  say,  a  mere  nothing. " 

It  was  Mrs.  Smart  who  spoke,  and  Emily  felt  that  some 
one  took  hold  of  her  hand.  She  opened  her  eyes,  and 
met  a  quiet,  steady  gaze  fixed  upon  her,  Mrs.  Smart  had 
evidently  fetched  a  doctor. 

"  I  am  not  ill,  sir,"  said  Emily.   c$- 

The  doctor  smiled  compassionately,  and  continued  to 
feel  her  pulse,  but  Emily  could  not  attend  to  what  he  said 
sufficiently  to  answer  his  questions.  She  heard  him  say, 
"The  girl  has  a  great  deal  of  low  fever  hanging  about 
her,"  and  then  the  old  faint  drowsiness  came  over  her 
again.  She  felt  pleased  shortly  after  to  have  a  cup  of  tea 
given  to  her,  but  after  that,  night  and  day  began  to  be  con- 
fused in  her  mind,  and  though  she  was  never  absolutely 
dehrious,  she  could  not  govern  her  thoughts  or  speak  con- 
nectedly. 

Every  day  the  doctor  came  to  see  her,  and  she  felt  a 
kind  of  satisfaction  in  seeing  his  calm,  attentive  face,  and 
in  hearing  his  quiet  questions  ;  "And  how  do  you  feel  to- 
day, Emily  Welland  1     No  pain  ?  that's  well." 

"  She  never  complains  of  anything,  sir,"  Mrs.  Smart 
would  remark.  Mrs.  Smart  had  become  very  kind  and 
good  to  her  now.  "  She  is  as  patient  as  a  lamb,"  was  her 
frequent  observation  ;  "  and  if  I  ask  her  how  she  does,  she 
always  says  she  's  better." 

A  long  time  passed  in  this  way.  At  last,  one  afternoon, 
Emily  opened  her  eyes  and  observed  that  it  was  Sunday. 
She  was  led  to  make  this  observation  because  she  saw  that 
Mrs.  Smart  had  cleaned  herself,  taken  off  her  curl-papers, 
and  put  on  the  green  mousseline-de-laine  gown  that  she 
never  wore  but  on  Sunday  afternoon.  After  lying  still 
a  while,  looking  about  her,  she  observed  that  her  own  two 


Emily  s  Ambition.  3 77 

boxes  were  gone  from  their  usual  places,  and  this  made 
her  still  more  wakeful.  She  was  aware  that  whatever  ill- 
ness she  had  suffered  from  was  passing  away,  and  she 
found  strength  to  repeat  in  a  faint  tone,  "  Mrs.  Smart ! 
Mrs.  Smart!"- 

Mrs.  Smart  was  toasting  bread,  and  when  she  came  at 
Emily's  call  she  brought  a.  piece  with  her,  and  some  tea, 
telling  her  that  the  doctor  had  said  she  was  much  better, 
and  when. she  awoke  might  eat  and  drink  a  little. 

"  I  know  you  have  been  very  good  to  me,"  said  Emily, 
looking  at  her ;  "  you  have  nursed  me  and  I  was  nothing 
to  you." 

Mrs.  Smart  was  evidently  not  sorry  to  hear  Emily  speak 
sensibly  ;  and  perhaps,  after  the  trouble  and  pains  she  had 
been  at,  she  was  also  glad  to  find  that  her  patient  was 
grateful. 

"  I  have  done  according  to  orders,"  she  rephed,  "  and 
the  doctor  knows  I  have  n't  sold  more  of  your  clothes  than 
I  could  help  ;  it  was  all  done  with  his  knowledge." 

"  Have  I  anything  left .'"'  asked  Emily,  humbly. 

"  Yes,  child,  your  best  pink,  mushn  gown,  and  your  best 
pair  of  boots,  and  your  prize-books,  besides  the  clothes 
you  went  to  work  in." 

At  another  time  this  news  would  have  shocked  Emily  ; 
but  now  she  was  returning  from  the  dreary  delusive  world 
of  fever  to  sense,  life,  and  reality,  and  thankfulness  was 
her  prevailing  feeling,  and  she  took  the  toast  and  tea  with 
such  rehsh  as  those  who  have  never  been  in  her  circum- 
stances cannot  possibly  understand. 

It  was  a  chilly  day  in  the  middle  of  April  when  Emily 
had  left  her  work  ;  it  was  a  hot  morning  early  in  June 
when  she  crept  languidly  forth  again  in  her  working 
clothes.  The  pink  mushn  dress  and  the  best  boots  had 
followed  her  other  possessions,  and,  in  the  expressive  lan- 
guage of  the  poor,  she  had  nothing  *iow  but  what  she  stood 
upright  in. 


378  Studies  for  Stories. 

The  kind-hearted  doctor  had  told  her  to  call  at  his  house 
in  the  neighboring  square,  of  which  he  had  promised  to 
lend  her  the  key,  that  she  might  go  in  and  sit  down  under 
the  trees  and  enjoy  the  quiet  and  the  comparatively  fresh 
air» 

Emily  entered  the  square,  and  sat  down  under  the  shade 
of  some  young  lime-trees.  The  air  revived  her,  and  the 
quiet  and  freshness  of  the  place  did  her  good ;  'but  she 
was  recovering  her  strength  slowly,  and  was  aware  that 
her  natural  anxiety  about  the  future  was  keeping  her  back. 
She  sat  long,  with  her  pale  cheek  leaning  on  her  hand, 
meditating  as  to  what  course  she  should  pursue.  She  pos- 
sessed but  one  sixpence  now,  and  was  not  strong  enough 
to  work ;  moreover,  her  friend  Mrs.  Smart  would  not  long 
be  able  to  afford  her  a  shelter,  for  the  house  was  let,  and 
in  less  than  a  fortnight  the  new  tenants  would  dispense 
with  her  services. 


Emily  s  Ambition.  2i79 


CHAPTER    V 


THE  last  six  months  seemed  to  Emily  like  a  dream. 
She  felt  deeply  that  she  had  made  a  great  mistake  ; 
but  as  she  had  long  regretted  it,  and  wished  to  repair  it, 
she  thought  it  rather  hard  that  she  had  been  unable  to  do 
so.  The  one  false  step  of  leaving  her  own  line  in  life  in 
which  she  had  grown  up,  and  which  she  was  so  well  fitted 
for,  she  did  not  now  see  how  to  rectify ;  first,  for  want  of 
money  to  reach  the  different  places  at  any  one  of  which 
she  could  have  been  examined  for  her  certificate ;  and 
secondly,  for  want  of  clothes,  for  London  had  made  sad 
havoc  with  the  one  gown  and  bonnet  that  she  had  left. 
She  was  not  strong  enough  to  take  a  teacher's  situation 
now,  and  though  she  thought  it  very  likely  that  her  old 
friend  and  mistress,  Miss  Cooper,  would  be  very  glad  to 
recommend  her  in  case  she  came  back,  and  might  have 
influence  enough  to  induce  the  Vicar  to  overlook  her  with- 
drawal, she  felt  with  a  pang  of  pride  that  she  could  not  bear 
to  go  back  dressed  almost  like  a  beggar  ;  and  moreover 
the  journey  would  be  expensive,  and  there  was  no  one 
from  whom  she  could  borrow  the  money,  so  that  must  be 
given  up. 

What  then  should  be  done  ?  She  pondered  long,  and  at 
last  decided  to  apply  personally  at  a  place  in  London  which 
she  knew  well  by  reputation,  a  training-school,  where  she 
could  go  in,  as  she  thought,  on  a  humble  footing,  and  work 
her  way  till  she  had  earned  what  would  buy  her  some  de- 
cent clothes,  and  then  go  in  for  her  examination,  and  try 
to  obtain  a  situation  in  which  she  could  maintain  herself. 


380  ,     Studies  for  Stories. 

She  felt  that  her  present  dehcate  appearance  was  against 
her,  but  that  she  thought  would  improve  every  day.  What 
she  most  objected  to  was  her  very  shabby  dress,  and  her 
short  hair  (for  her  long  dark  locks  had  been  cut  off) ;  and 
she  was  sure  the  other  young  teachers  with  whom  she 
would  have  to  associate  would  look  so  nicely,  dressed  with 
their  well-made  gowns,  neat  bonnets,  and  glossy  hair,  that 
she  should  suffer  heavily  from  a  sense  of  inferiority. 

"But  at  all  hazards,"  thought  Emily,  "no  more  dress- 
making and  shop-working  for  me.  I  have  seen  something 
of  that,  and  I  may  just  as  well  expect  to  be  made  queen  as 
to  be  taken  into  partnership  with  one  of  my  employers,  or 
even  to  earn  enough  to  maintain  myself  comfortably." 

It  was  something  to  have  decided  what  course  to  pursue, 
and  this  made  her  feel  better  and  easier  in  her  mind, 
though  painful  visions  haunted  her  of  haughty  looks  from 
the  young  girls  in  the  training-school,  and  contemptuous 
withdrawings  from  her  and  her  dingy  and  threadbare 
gown. 

The  next  day  early  she  set  off  on  her  errand,  making 
herself  as  scrupulously  neat  as  she  could  with  what  clothes 
she  possessed,  and  creeping  slowly  along,  that  she  might 
feel  tolerably  fresh  for  presenting  herself  before  the  com- 
mittee whom  she  expected  to  see. 

Mrs.  Smart,  who,  dirty  and  slatternly  still,  had  taken  a 
great  liking  to  the  friendless  girl,  walked  with  her  for  a 
mile,  and  then,  with  many  directions  and  encouragements, 
and  a  present  of  a  new  penny  roll,  which  she  was  to  eat 
when  she  felt  faint,  left  her  to  pursue  her  way  full  of  hope, 
though  still  weak  and  white-faced  from  illness. 

"  It  will  be  the  old  story  over  again,"  said  the  good  wo- 
man, "  but  she  shall  have  a  rare  tea  this  day,  even  if  I  pay 
for  it."  So  she  stopped  at  a  shop  and  bought  two  mack- 
erel, and  then  a  Yorkshire  cake  for  toasting  ;  and  home 
she  went  to  the  black  beetles,  in  whose  lively  company  she 


Emilys  Ambition.      ,  381 

s 

did  not  miss  Emily,  though,  to  do  her  justice,  she  sincerely 
wished  her  all  success. 

Emily  would  not  be  home  before  four  o'clock,  she  felt 
sure,  so  she  ate  some  bread  and  cheese  at  twelve  o'clock, 
and  spread  what  seemed  to  be  a  sumptuous  board  in  the 
afternoon, — broiled  mackerel,  bread  and  butter,  and  cake, 
and  a  lettuce. 

Just  as  everything  was  ready,  she  saw  Emily  coming  lan- 
guidly down  the  area-steps,  and  let  her  in,  but  said  nothing 
to  her.  Success  w^as  certainly  not  written  on  the  poor  pale 
face,  and  though  faint  with  hunger,  she  scarcely  showed 
any  pleasure  at  the  sight  of  those  appetizing  viands.  Not 
a  word  she  said,  but  threw  off  her  bonnet,  and  sunk  into  a 
chair  with  a  heavy  sigh. 
.  "  Well,  well,  child,"  said  Mrs.  Smart,  taking  failure  for 
granted,  "  this  is  only  the  first  day ;  you  can  try  again  to- 
morrow." 

But  the  only  answer  was  :  — 

"  O,  Mrs.  Smart,  I  wish  I  had  never  seen  this  wTetched 
place  ! " 

"  Well,  I  'm  sure  !  "  replied  Mrs.  Smart,  rather  tartly, 
"  that 's  mighty  civil  to  me.  You  wish  you  'd  never  seen 
me,  then;  and  I  've  been  the  best  of  friends  to  you. 
There,  come  along,  and  get  some  tea,  and  don't  be  down- 
hearted. I  hate  to  see  folks  down-hearted ;  it  makes  me 
think  o'  my  own  troubles,  and  I  've  had  a  many  on  'em." 

Emily,  thus  admonished,  drew  her  chair  to  the  table,  and 
though  Mrs.  Smart  seemed  not  to  be  in  the  best  of  humors, 
she  heaped  her  plate  with  substantial  food  till  the  poor 
girl  felt  her  strength  revive,  and  her  weary  spirits  begin  to 
rise  a  little. 

"  So  they  won't  have  nothing  to  say  to  you,  eh,  child  ?  " 
asked  the  good  woman. 

"  No ;  the  gentleman  at  the  first  place  I  went  to  said, 
*  Have  you  been  ill,  young  woman  ? '     '  Yes,  sir,'  I  said. 


382  Studies  for  Stories. 

*  What 's  been  the  matter  —  a  fever  ? '  *  Yes,  sir.'  '  What 
sort  of  fever  ?  nothing  infectious,  I  hope.'  So  I  said,  '  I 
beHeve  it  was  low  typhus.'  '  Bless  me,'  says  he,  '  and  only 
just  getting  better !  How  could  you  think  of  coming 
among  all  these  candidates,  and  expect  to  teach  in  the 
school  ?  It  was  exceeding  wrong  of  you,  young  woman,  to 
come  here ; '  and  I  assure  you  they  were  in  such  a  hurry 
to  shut  me  out,  that  they  would  not  allow  me  time  even  to 
inquire  how  long  it  would  be  before  I  might  come  again. 
Well,  it  was  nearly  the  same  thing  at  the  next  place  I  went 
to,  and  at  the  last  I  do  beHeve  they  took  me  for  an  impos- 
tor ;  they  looked  me  up  and  down,  and  then  said  they 
were  sure  I  was  not  strong  enough  for  any  sort  of  exer- 
tion ;  but  one  of  the  gentlemen  said  he  would  give  me  a 
recommendation  to  the  Consumption  Hospital ;  and  when 
I  said  I  was  not  at  all  consumptive,  he  says,  '  Well,  well, 
in  two  or  three  months,  if  you  are  better,  you  may  come 
again.' " 

Emily  made  this  long  speech  almost  in  a  breath,  as  if 
she  knew  she  must  give  some  account  of  herself,  and 
wished  to  get  it  done  as  soon  as  possible,  and  alluded  no 
more  to  the  painful  subject. 

She  went  out  the  next  day  with  the  same  result,  and  sat 
drooping  in  the  evening  in  a  way  that  made  the  dirty  house- 
keeper's heart  ache.  Not  a  word  was  said  to  her,  and  after 
a  restless  night  she  went  and  brought  home  some  shop- 
work,  and  began  to  stitch  as  fast  as  her  then  trembling 
hand  would  let  her. 

"  What,  child,  going  to  try  shop-work  again  ?  "  said  Mrs. 
Smart. 

"  I  must  live,"  rephed  Emily.  "  I  am  getting  into  debt 
to  you  for  my  board  already,  and  I  've  no  chance  of  getting 
a  teacher's  situation  till  I  look  more  healthy,  and  my  hair 
is  longer.  Seeing  it  only  an  inch  long,  ever}'body  that  I 
apply  to  asks  if  I  have  had  a  fever." 


Emily  s  Ambition.  383 

Mrs.  Smart  replied,  in  a  liberal  spirit,  that  the  next  time 
Emily  went  out  after  a  situation  she  would  give  a  friend  of 
hers,  who  was  a  barber,  a  sixpence  to  lend  her  a  wig  with 
long  ringlets.  And  Emily  thanked  her,  but  inwardly  re- 
solved not  to  accept  her  kindness. 

So  the  days  wore  on  till  the  new  tenant  came  in,  and 
Mrs.  Smart  hired  a  little  room  to  live  in,  Emily"  going  with 
her.  And  now  that  she  dwelt  among  the  poor,  Emily 
found  herself  not  so  much  cut  off  from  sympathy  as  she 
had  been  hitherto,  for  a  lady,  who  was  district  visitor  there, 
called  on  her,  and  when  she  found  how  beautifully  Emily 
could  work,  she  got  her  some  children's  dresses  to  make, 
for  which  she  received  very  much  better  pay  than  she  had 
earned  hitherto. 

But  Emily's  recovery  was  very  slow,  and  so  much  seden- 
tary occupation  did  not  suit  her,  so  that  she  was  often  ail- 
ing, and  therefore  frequently  received  a  visit  from  this  new 
friend,  who,  when  Mrs.  Smart  was  out  at  work,  would  sit 
and  talk  kindly  to  her,  and  give  her  the  best  advice  she 
could,  considering  how  little  she  knew  of  Emily's  circum- 
stances. 

Like  other  persons  who  had  been  compelled  to  pawn 
good  clothing,  Emily  felt  that  the  small  sum  she  had  re- 
ceived upon  it  was  nothing  compared  with  its  real  value  to 
herself,  and  she  worked  very  hard  to  get  the  interest  paid 
on  some  of  her  most  useful  articles,  and,  if  possible,  to  get 
them  once  again  before  the  year  was  over. 

She  felt  that  a  tolerable  appearance  of  health  and  some 
decent  clothes  were  absolutely  needful,  if  she  wished  to  be 
a  teacher,  and  with  unremitting  industry  she  worked,  sel- 
dom having  more  than  enough  time  to  fulfil  what  she  un- 
dertook, partly  owing  to  the  kindness  of  the  lady  visitor, 
and  partly  to  her  obliging  and  civil  manner  and  neat  work. 

At  last  Christmas  came  round  again,  and  Emily  had 
been  able  to  get  some  of  her  possessions  into  her  own 


384  Studies  for  Stories 

keeping ;  she  looked  stronger,  and  her  hair  was  growing 
as  quickly  as  could  be  expected  ;  moreover,  she  was  begin- 
ning to  talk  more  openly  to  her  friend,  the  district  visitor  ; 
and  when  this  lady  found  that  she  was  denying  herself 
many  little  comforts,  and  every  moment  of  leisure,  for  the 
sake  of  taking  the  remainder  of  her  clothing  out  of  pawn, 
she  one  day  offered  to  lend  her  two  sovereigns,  saying  that 
this  would  save  her  from  having  any  further  interest  to 
pay,  and  that  she  might  take  everything  out  of  pawn,  and 
pay  back  this  sum  at  her  convenience. 

Emily  was  very  grateful  for  this  kindness,  and  agreed  to 
pay  two  shillings  a  week  to  her  kind  friend  till  she  had  re- 
stored all.  The  mere  circumstance  of  being  so  trusted 
did  her  good,  and  revived  her  spirits  ;  and  when  she  got 
back  her  comfortable  clothes  into  her  own  keeping,  she 
could  take  more  pleasure  in  her  needle,  for  she  had  now  a 
character  to  maintain  with  her  visitor  ;  she  had  been  trust- 
ed as  well  as  employed,  and  she  resolved  not  to  spend  one 
day  even  in  looking  after  a  teacher's  situation,  till  she  had 
paid  back  every  farthing. 

In  all  her  distress  and  loss  of  health,  Emily  had  never 
so  far  forgotten  her  bringing  up,  and  the  excellent  instruc- 
tion she  had  received,  as  to  neglect  attendance  at  church, 
or  a  due  observance  of  the  Lord's  day.  She  had,  like  John 
Mills,  been  tried  as  to  whether  she  would  and  could  pre- 
sent herself  in  her  working  dress  ;  and  perhaps  at  first  it 
was  the  recollection  that,  even  in  his  native  town  and 
among  those  who  knew  him,  he  had  not  shrunk  from  this 
plain  duty,  which  nerved  up  Emily  to  do  likewise.  Like 
him,  she  ventured  forth  shamefaced  and  forlorn  ;  but  like 
him,  she  often  came  home  refreshed  and  strengthened  for 
her  week-day  task,  and  she  found  a  blessing  where  she  had 
only  gone  as  a  duty.  In' the  days  of  her  prosperity  she 
had  often  been  a  careless  worshipper,  and  a  little  thing 
would  make  her  attention  wander;  but  now  she  needed 


Emily  s  Ambition.  385 

this  weekly  refreshment,  this  reminding  of  holy  things,  to 
make  her  hard  work  easier,  and  lead  her  to  think  amid  the 
turmoil  of  tlie  great  city,  that  often  seemed  as  if  it  would 
sweep  her  away  and  swallow  her  up,  of  that  heavenly  city 
which  hath  foundations,  whose  builder  and  maker  is  God. 

From  her  childhood  she  had  been  accustomed  to  read  a 
chapter  in  the  Bible  before  she  retired  to  bed ;  but  during 
her  sojourn  with  Mrs.  Smart  in  the  empty  house,  she  had 
often  reached  home  so  late,  that  her  weary  eyes  were  not 
fit  for  any  further  occupation,  and  if  she  had  gone  through 
the  task  mechanically,  it  would  have  made  no  impression 
on  her  mind. 

Now,  however,  that  she  shared  a  little  room  with  her  old 
friend,  and  did  her  work  at  home,  she  resumed  her  former 
habit,  and  often  read  the  chapter  aloud  to  Mrs.  Smart,  af- 
ter a  return  from  the  day's  charing,  that  kind  creature  lis- 
tening with  due  attention,  and  evidently  supposing  that  it 
was  more  Emily's  duty  than  her  own  to  be  religious  and 
devout ;  because,  as  she  observed,  — 

"The  girl  has  learning,  and  is  to  be  a  school-missis." 

But  Mrs.  Smart  derived  much  benefit  from  Emily  be- 
sides this  nightly  reading ;  for  Emily  kept  the  room  so 
clean  and  comfortable,  cooked  her  such  a  cosey  little  sup- 
per by  the  time  she  returned  from  her  charing  or  washing, 
and  was  so  pleasant  and  good-tempered,  that  Mrs.  Smart 
thought  she  could  do  no  less  than  yield  to  her  persuasion 
that  she  would  come  with  her  to  church ;  so  she  put  on 
her  best  things  one  fine  Sunday  morning,  and  set  off  in 
good  time  to  the  free  seats,  remarking  that  it  was  a  highly 
respectable  thing  to  go  to  church,  but  not  apparently  aware 
that  it  was  a  necessary  thing,  which  could  not  be  neglected 
with  impunity  by  any  who  had  opportunity  to  attend. 


17 


386  Studies  for  Stories, 


CHAPTER    VI. 


WE  must  now  leave  Emily  Welland  for  a  time,  to 
follow  the  fortunes  of  her  old  friend  John  Mills, 
whose  prospects  began  to  brighten  at  the  same  time  that 
hers  became  clouded. 

John  came  up  to  London  about  the  time  that  he  men- 
tioned in  his  letter  to  Emily,  and  si.everal  times  in  the 
evening  he  came  and  walked  before  the  house  where  Mrs. 
Smalley  had  Hved.  He  observed  that  it  was  not  tenanted. 
As  Emily  had  told  him  that  she  worked  for  a  milliner  who 
was  quite  as  rich  as  her  aunt  had  ever  been,  the  poor 
fellow  had  foolish  visions  of  her  present  manner  of  life 
that  were  very  far  indeed  from  the  truth.  He  supposed 
that  all  success  had  attended  her,  for  she  had  not  told  him 
that  it  was  otherwise.  He  fancied  her  prettily  dressed, 
and  looking  handsomer  than  ever,  engaged  in  the  light  and 
pleasant  occupation  of  trying  on  shawls  and  bonnets  for 
beautiful  ladies,  and  sometimes  getting  a  drive  in  the  mil- 
liner's carriage. 

"  I  only  hope  her  head  will  not  be  turned,"  thought 
honest  John,  "  for  what  with  the  riches  one  sees  on  all 
hands,  and  what  with  the  succeeding  so  well  as  everybody 
seems  to  do,  it  is  very  difficult  not  to  grow  covetous,  and 
forget  the  world  to  come  in  the  prosperity  and  happiness 
of  this." 

By  that  speech  it  will  easily  be  seen  that  John  was  a  suc- 
cessful man,  for  as  the  unfortunate  often  learn  to  look  at 
the  side  which  harmonizes  most  with  their  own  circum- 
stances, and  observe  poverty,  loss,  and  descent,  so  the  sue- 


Emilys  Ambition.  387 

cessful  see  most  the  riches  and  prosperity  around  them, 
and  if  they  are  rising  in  life  they  can  think  of  many  who 
are  doing  the  same. 

John,  as  we  have  said,  walked  several  times  past  the 
house  formerly  occupied  by  Mrs.  Smalley  ;  because  it  was 
the  only  place  in  London  where  he  knew  that  she  had 
been.  She  had  not  told  him  the  name  of  the  milliner  for 
whom  she  worked,  but  had  allowed  him  to  address  to  her 
to  the  care  of  Mrs.  Smart.  He  therefore  had  no  clew  to  her 
abode,  and  when  the  house  was  let  he  ceased  to  pass  it, 
and  utterly  lost  sight  of  her,  for  she  did  not  correspond 
with  any  one  in  Dorsetshire,  and  he  sometimes  thought 
with  pain  that  this  might  be  because  she  now  felt  ashamed 
of  her  old  friends. 

John  stayed  in  London  for  a  year,  for  the  money  he 
earned  by  his  carvings  was  enough  to  maintain  his  fam- 
ily, though  he  bestowed  so  little  time  on  them  as  to  leave 
him  abundant  leisure  for  improvement.  He  came  back,  as 
his  mother  phrased  it,  "quite  the  gentleman"  ;  but  by  this 
the  good  woman  did  not  mean  that  he  held  himself  high, 
for  she  distinctly  declared  to  a  neighbor  that  such  was  not 
the  case  ;  but  that  his  manners  were  improved  by  inter- 
course with  his  superiors,  and  his  language  cleared  from 
provincial  expressions,  for  John  had  not  forgotten  his  old 
feeling,  that  a  man  "  who  wanted  to  marry  a  schoolmis- 
tress "  had  need  to  take  pains  with  his  learning ;  and 
though  he  had  quite  lost  sight  of  Emily,  and  could  scarcely 
hope  to  see  her  again,  much  less  obtain  her  for  a  wife,  she 
was  still  a  spur  to  him,  and  having  long  wished  to  feel,  he 
could  now  begin  to  feel,  that  he  was  not  unworthy  of  her. 

Mr.  Clements  had  been  very  kind  to  John  ;  had  given 
him  introductions  to  several  artists,  and  had  procured  for 
him  first-rate  instruction.  The  pupil  proved  more  apt 
than  the  master  could  have  hoped,  and  was  soon  so  much 
the  fashion  in  the  circle  of  his  patron,  as  to  become  inde- 


388  Studies  for  Stories. 

pendent  of  any  help,  and  to  have  more  orders  than  he 
could  execute. 

But  John  had  excellent  sense  :  he  had  come  to  London 
to  improve  himself,  and  improvement  he  would  have  even 
at  the  expense  of  present  profit :  he  therefore  executed  no 
more  carving  work  than  sufficed  to  earn  for  his  mother  the 
customary  weekly  sum,  and  to  provide  for  himself  a  bare 
maintenance. 

The  time  passed  quickly  with  him,  and  might  have 
passed  happily,  but  that  he  could  not  forget  Emily,  nor 
cease  to  long  for  her  society ;  but  he  supposed  she  was 
well  off,  and  that  this  ought  to  content  him,  and  he  came 
to  his  family  cheerful  and  full  of  hope :  he  had  obtained 
what  he  wanted,  and  more  ;  he  had  satisfied  his  craving 
for  instruction  ;  he  had  seen  some  of  the  finest  wood-carv- 
ings in  existence  ;  he  had  decided  that  carving  in  wood 
and  not  in  stone  was  to  be  his  art,  and  he  had  a  reasonable 
expectation  that  he  should  be  able  to  earn  an  abundant 
and  even  handsome  maintenance. 

And  now  there  was  no  need  to  work  in  a  chill  shed  and 
eat  coarse  food  ;  John  hired  a  pretty  house  in  a  good  gar- 
den, and  removed  his  parents  to  it.  It  was  such  a  short 
distance  from  the  old  cottage  that  he  could  see  distinctly 
from  his  pleasant  workroom  the  gable  end  and  the  windows 
of  Emily's  former  home,  the  little  casement  where  he  had 
often  seen  her  sitting  at  work,  and  the  tall  white  lilies 
which  had  been  his  models  years  before. 

It  was  the  time  of  the  midsummer  holidays  when  he  re- 
turned and  placed  his  mother  in  her  new  abode,  which  the 
good  woman  declared  to  be  "  quite  a  paradise,  —  in  fact,  it 
had  a  parlor  within  and  a  little  orchard  without,  and  if  that 
did  not  constitute  her  a  proud  and  happy  woman  she  won- 
dered what  would.  So  she  bustled  about  with  a  little 
servant  whom  her  dutiful  son  had  hired  for  her  ;  and 
considering  the  place  to  be  far  too  good  to  be  Hved  in, 


I 


Emiljhs  Ambition.  389 

she  was  for  sitting  in  the  parlor  only  on  Sunday  after- 
noons, lest  some  harm  should  happen  to  the  little  square  of 
Scotch  carpet,  and  the  six  cane  chairs  which  stood  by  the 
walls. 

John,  however,  made  a  decree  that  his  father  should  sit 
in  the  parlor  every  night  during  the  warm  weather,  in  his 
own  particular  easy-chair,  and  play  a  game  at  chess  with 
him,  for  that  was  almost  the  only  amusement  the  poor  crip- 
ple could  enjoy.  "  After  which,"  said  John,  "  you  will  sit 
there,  mother,  and  work,  for  it  looks  comfortable,  and  is 
far  cooler  than  the  kitchen." 

To  this  the  mother  consented  with  secret  pleasure,  but 
stipulated  that  the  family  should  return  to  the  kitchen  to 
eat  their  supper,  and  that  the  children  should  sit  there  to 
learn  their  tasks.  "  If  they  want  to  look  at  their  father 
and  me  sitting  Hke  gentlefolks,"  said  the  good  woman, 
"  they  may  come  outside  and  see  us  through  the  window." 

Of  this  permission  the  Misses  Mills  frequently  availed 
themselves  while  there  was  any  novelty  in  the  sight ;  but 
people  soon  grow  accustomed  to  comfort,  and  Mrs.  Mills 
learned  before  the  cold  weather  set  in  not  only  to  see  a  fire 
in  the  grate,  but  even  to  drink  tea  in  the  parlor  and  see  her 
children  sit  there. 

But  nobody  enjoyed  the  parlor  so  little  as  John  did,  — 
John,  who  had  provided  the  small  square  of  carpet  which 
was  reckoned  such  a  luxury,  and  the  six  cane  chairs  which 
looked  so  glossy  and  yellow.  John  was  sometimes  in  low 
spirits  now  ;  for  though  he  strove  to  be  thankful  and  glad 
of  the  great  change  and  happy  ease  of  his  present  hfe,  a 
conversation  that  he  had  had  with  Miss  Cooper  soon  after 
his  return  weighed  on  his  mind,  and  cost  him  many  a  rest- 
less hour. 

Miss  Coc|)er  had  called  to  see  him,  and  had  asked  what 
he  knew  about  Emily. 

•■•  Nothing,"  said  John. 


3^0  Studies  for  Stories. 

"  I  was  afraid  so,"  answered  Miss  Cooper,  sighing ; 
"poor  girl !  " 

"  Why  poor  ?  "  asked  John.  "  I  never  doubted  that  she 
was  quite  as  well  off  as  I  am  ;  she  can  hardly  be  better 
off." 

"  No,  no,  Mr.  Mills,"  replied  the  schoolmistress ;  "  I 
know  Emily  well,  and  I  am  quite  sure  that,  if  she  was  in 
good  circumstances,  she  would  have  written.  Why  should 
she  not  write  to  me  that  am  her  old  friend  ?  You  may  be 
sure  she  would  have  done  so  and  given  us  an  address  —  " 

"  Sorely  you  don't  think  she  is  dead  ?  "  exclaimed  John, 
turning  cold  and  sick  at  heart. 

"  O,  no ;  I  have  no  ground  for  such  a  thought,"  said 
the  schoolmistress :  "  but  I  say,  unless  there  was  some 
reason  for  it,  she  would  write." 

"  She  said  in  her  letter  that  she  worked  for  a  rich  mil- 
liner," observed  John. 

"  And  what  is  that  ?  No  more  than  working  for  a  poor 
one,  as  far  as  earnings  are  concerned,  and  I  know  that 
those  must  be  small.  Unknown  girls  from  the  country  do 
not  get  taken  into  partnership  or  made  confidential  assist- 
ants, as  Emily  expected  her  aunt  to  do  for  her.  No,  John, 
depend  on  it  she  has  made  the  best  of  matters  to  you,  but 
I  feel  sure  that  if  she  was  really  comfortable,  she  would 
have  written  to  me  and  told  me  so,  and  asked  me  to  come 
and  see  her,  for  she  knows  that  I  have  a  sister  there,  and 
that  I  have  been  talking  of  going  up  to  stay  with  her,  for 
a  long  time." 

But  John,  though  this  conversation  made  him  uneasy, 
struggled  against  the  feeling,  for  it  seemed  to  him  unrea- 
sonable ;  he  argued  with  himself  that  Emily  was  very 
clever,  and  was  therefore  sure  to  get  on ;  she  had  excel- 
lent principles  and  would  not  do  wrong;  tfee  only  real 
danger  for  him,  he  considered,  was,  lest  she  should  marry 
some  other  man  before  he  had  a  chance  of  showing  her 


Emilys  Ambition.  391 

what  a  comfortable  home  and  what  a  well-informed '  hus- 
band he  could  now  give  her,  if  she  would  but  change  her 
mind  and  like  him  well  enough  to  be  his  wife. 

"John,  I  expect  you  '11  soon  be  thinking  of  settling," 
said  his  mother,  one  day  when  he  came  home  with  a  new 
American  clock  for  the  best  kitchen,  "  but  don't  marry  a 
dawdle,  lad  ;  take  a  good  sprack  lass,  whoever  she  be." 

"  I  shall  never  marry  any  but  2,  Dorsetshire  girl,  moth- 
er," said  John,  who  well  knew  that  his  mother  was  thinking 
of  the  gaily  dressed  daughters  of  one  of  the  drapers  in  the 
town, — girls  who  would  never  have  thought  of  him  in  his 
former  circumstances,  but  who  now  were  particularly  civil 
to  him,  and  to  his  mother,  and  to  his  young  sisters. 

"Well,  lad,"  said  she,  "though  I  be  not  Dorsetshire  my- 
self, I  have  no  objections  to  thy  having  a  liking  to  it  and  to 
a  good  Dorset  lass,  only  providing  it  be  not  Emily  Wel- 
land  thou  sets  thy  heart  upon." 

"And  why  not  Emily  Welland  ? "  exclaimed  John. 

"  Why  not  ?  because  she  will  never  hke  thee.  John,  it 
vexes  me  to  see  that  face  in  the  carving  shed ;  I  know 
very  well  whose  face  it  is." 

"I  carved  that  figure  for  my  own  pleasure,"  rephed 
John,  "  and  it  has  been  a  comfort  to  me.  Why  would  you 
have  me  give  up  my  hope  and  my  ambition,  mother  ?  " 

"  Ambition  !  why,  lad,  sure  Emily  Welland  cannot  hold 
her  head  higher  than  thine  now.     Ambition  indeed  !  " 

"It  has  always  been  my  ambition  to  be  worthy  of  her," 
said  John,  calmly,  "  and  if  I  cannot  forget  her,  what  is  the 
use  of  talking  about  my  settling,  mother  ?  Are  you  so  very 
anxious  that  I  should  settle  .'* " 

"  No,  lad ;  we  've  struggled  through  a  good  deal  togeth- 
er ;  I  've  been  used  to  be  the  first,  and  I  don't  want  to  see 
another  woman  set  over  my  head,  —  that 's  the  truth." 

"  I  knew  that  before  you  told  me,"  said  John,  smiling. 
"  Look  here,  mother ;  we  shall  know  what  time  of  day  it  is 


392  Studies  for  Stoiies. 

now  to  a  minute,  and  I  've  bought  father  a  new  waistcoat, 
and  you  a  tea-caddy.'' 

"  He  does  not  look  as  if  things  went  well  with  him," 
thought  the  mother,  as  her  son  retired  to  his  workshop. 
"  I  've  seen  him  look  cheerfuller  when  he  had  but  a  crust." 

John  went  to  his  workshop  and  there  worked  hard,  hav- 
ing bravely  resolved  to  look  on  the  bright  side  of  his  cir- 
cumstances. He  had  everything  in  this  life  that  he  cared 
for,"  and  more  than  he  could  reasonably  have  hoped  ;  but 
one  thing  was  denied  him,  —  the  knowledge  of  Emily's  wel- 
fare. This  he  was  not  to  have  ;  and,  like  a  wise  man,  in- 
stead of  indulging  melancholy,  and  relaxing  his  efforts  to 
improve  himself  in  consequence  of  this  anxiety,  he  re- 
solved rather  to  redouble  his  exertions,  not  to  allow  him- 
self one  idle  moment,  and  to  take  for  his  special  motto  the 
text,  "  Whatsoever  thy  hand  findeth  to  do,  do  it  with  thy 
might." 

With  his  might  he  carved,  with  his  might  he  read  and 
attended  lectures,  during  the  week ;  with  his  might  on 
Sunday  he  taught  in  the  Sunday  school,  attended  divine 
service,  Hstened  to  the  sermon,  and  strove  to  make  a  good 
use  of  the  hours  spent  at  home.  So  passed  a  year  fruitful 
in  exertions,  full  of  improvement  and  success,  and  on  the 
whole  a  very  happy  year,  though  still  the  memory  of  that 
face  to  which  his  mother  had  alluded  was  dear  to  John, 
and  he  did  not  wish  to  forget  it. 

He  had  carved  a  figure,  as  he  said,  for  his  own  pleasure  ; 
and  in  his  workshop  he  had  made  a  small  recess,  with  a 
little  door  to  shut  it  in.  Sometimes  he  would  open  the 
door  and  look  at  his  work ;  it  was  the  best  and  finest  he 
had  ever  done,  and  represented  a  young  girl  stepping  over 
fallen  leaves ;  loose  and  light  as  feathers  they  looked,  ow- 
ing to  the  carver's  skill ;  and  a  shawl  was  drawn  over  the 
head,  which  fell  in  simple  folds  down  the  youthful  figure ; 
the  face  was  Emily  Welland's ;  but  it  was  more  as  she 


Emilys  Ambition.  593 

looked  when  seated  at  her  work  ift  the  London  garret  than 
as  John  had  known  her  in  the  earher  days  of  her  prosper- 
ity, for  it  had  a  gentle  and  thoughtful  expression  that  it 
then  very  seldom,  though  now  it  habitually  wore. 

It  was  drawing  towards  autumn  ;  London  was  emptied 
of  nearly  all  who  were  rich  enough  to  go  out  and  enjoy  the 
air  and  freshness  of  the  country ;  the  parks  were  dusty 
and  hot,  the  grass  scorched,  the  streets  close,  and  the 
passers  through  them  frequently  looked  tired  and  languid. 
Even  strong  workmen  wielded  their  tools  less  actively  than 
usual,  and  street-beggars  plied  their  trade  with  less  alacrity 
and  ready  impertinence.  The  weather  was  too  much  for 
them.  Work  was  very  slack  with  the  needlewomen,  —  the 
ladies  were  out  of  town ;  the  dress-makers,  no  less  gaily 
attired,  had  followed  in  their  wake,  and  there  was  nothing 
stirring.  In  a  quiet  little  square,  however,  the  committee 
of  a  society  for  promoting  emigration  was  sitting  ;  that  is 
to  say,  three  members  were  sitting,  the  remaining  nine  be- 
ing out  of  town.  • 

To  the  committee-room  of  this  society  a  well-dressed 
young  man  was  shown  just  as  a  young  woman  left  it  by 
another  door. 

"  Mr.  Mills,  I  believe  ? "  said  the  chairman,  and  then, 
looking  at  the  new-comer,  "You  come  for  information,  I 
presume,  not  for  help  from  the  society  ? " 

"  O,  no,"  said  John  Mills,  for  he  it  was  ;  "  but  I  am 
taking  my  family  out  to  Sydney,  and  some  men  whom  I 
now  employ  wish  to  go  with  me ;  it  is  on  their  account 
that  I  want  to  make  some  inquiries,  sir,  concerning  this 
society." 

"  You  could  give  them  regular  employment  there  ? " 
asked  the  chairman. 

"  Yes  ;  I  have  taken  a  contract  to  supply  all  the  carving 
required  for  one  of  the  new  public  buildings  there.     I  want 
workmen,  but  they  cannot  go  without  their  famiUes." 
17* 


394  Studies  for  Stories, 

Upon  this  followed  an  account  from  the  chairman  of  the 
amount  of  assistance  given  by  the  committee  to  deserving 
families,  and  the  care  taken  of  their  members,  —  especially 
of  them  during  the  somewhat  wearisome  voyage.  John 
listened  with  interest,  but  he  had  not  much  time  to  spare, 
and  was  about  to  say  that  he  thanked  the  chairman,  and 
would  retire,  as  he  had  received  the  requisite  information, 
when  one  of  the  committee  said  in  a  careless  tone  to  the 
other,  "  By  the  by,  that  young  woman  might  do  for  a 
teacher,  though  too  young  to  superintend  the  women. 
Did  you  tell  her  to  apply  again  ?  " 

Some  doubtful  answer  was  made  which  did  not  reach 
John's  uninterested  ears,  and  then  a  book  was  referred  to 
for  a  name. 

"Let  me  see,"  said  the  chairman,  turning  over  the 
leaves  of  a  book,  "apphcations  accepted,  Clara  Hope, 
Ellen  Smith  ;  applications  declined,  Emily  Welland  — " 

John  had  already  risen  to  make  his  parting  bow,  the  bell 
was  rung,  and  the  door  was  opei«d,  a  person  had  already 
appeared  to  show  him  out,  when  the  name  of  the  rejected 
applicant  struck  upon  his  ear,  and  he  stopped  with  a  sud- 
den start.  Emily  Welland  !  It  was  not  a  common  name, 
and  John  immediately  asked  to  have  it  repeated,  and  to  be 
allowed  to  copy  the  address.  These  were  soon  given  to 
him,  and  as  he  stood  soon  after  leaning  against  the  rails 
of  a  dusty  square,  and  looking  upon  the  scorched  grass 
and  dingy  trees  within,  his  heart  beat  high  with  hope  and 
wonder,  for  this  Emily  Welland  was  the  young  woman 
whom  he  had  seen  leaving  the  room  as  he  had  entered ; 
her  face  had  been  turned  from  him,  but,  excepting  that 
Emily  was  the  same  height  as  she  had  appeared  in  the 
cursory  glance  he  had  cast  towards  her,  there  was  nothing 
in  this  girl's  appearance  that  even  reminded  him  of  her. 

Neat,  trim,  fresh,  and  well  dressed,  with  a  light  elastic 
step,  an  erect  figure,  the  real  Emily  rose  before  his  imagi- 


Emily  s  Ambition.  395 

nation.  This  young  woman  was  certainly  neat,  but  to  his 
country  eyes  there  was  a  dingy  look  about  the  very  plain 
bonnet,  and  an  appearance  of  poverty  in  the  common 
black  print  gown  and  shabby  shawl,  which  few  young 
maid-servants  would  have  presented  even  in  their  every- 
day costume.  Yet  the  name  was  Emily  Welland.  It  was 
worth  inquiring  into,  he  thought,  so  he  strolled  out  of  the 
square  and  called  a  cab,  reading  the  address  to  the  driver 
from  the  paper  in  his  hand,  for  John  had  plenty  of  money 
in  his  pocket,  no  need,  and  indeed  not  time  to  spare,  for 
walking  now ;  the  distance  was  four  miles,  and  he  had 
some  purchases  to  make  on  his  way. 

So  he  stopped  at  several  shops,  asking  for  things  that 
no  one  buys  but  emigrants,  —  sun-bonnets  for  his  mother 
and  sisters,  pegged  chessmen  to  be  used  at  sea,  and  other 
things  which  took  some  time  to  choose,  but  which  did  not 
divert  his  mind  from  the  possibility  that  he  might  after  all 
be  on  his  way  to  see  the  long-lost  Emily. 

At  last  the  cab  threaded  several  narrow  and  dingy 
streets,  with  rags  stuffed  into  broken  panes,  dirty  Irish 
children  lying  on  the  pavement  in  the  shade,  and  dirty 
mothers  squatted  beside  them  with  backs  to  the  wall. 

John  now  laughed  outright  in  the  cab,  and  called  himself 
a  foolish  fellow  for  coming  on  such  a  wild-goose  chase,  as 
if  the  delicate  Emily  lived  in  such  a  hole,  he  thought. 

"She  never  went  down  a  place  like  this  in  her  life,  I  '11 
engage,"  he  said  to  himself;  "  however,  on  I  '11  go,  and  see 
for  myself  that  it  is  some  other  person  of  her  name.  There 
is  nothing  like  seeing,  to  drive  foolish  thoughts  away." 

Presently  the  cab  stopped.  John  found  himself  an  ob- 
ject of  interest.  A  cab  did  not  often  visit  the  alley  ;  and 
two  pale-faced  children  were  looking  in  at  the  open  win- 
dows and  making  their  remarks  to  each  other  respecting 
his  dress  and  appearance. 

"  That' s  the  court  you  want,  sir,"  said  the  cabman,  point- 
ing down  a  still  narrower  alley. 


39^  Studies  for  Stories. 

John  told  him  to  wait,  and  not  without  some  trepidation 
went  down  it,  and  looked  for  the  number  upon  his  address. 
There  stood  the  house  ;  it  was  three  stories  high,  and  the 
room  he  was  to  find  Emily  Welland  in  was  the  three -pair 
back. 

He  mounted  the  stairs,  and  knocked  at  the  door  in  ques- 
tion, then  tried  it,  and  found  it  locked ;  but  a  young  wo- 
tnan  with  work  in  her  hand  looked  out  from  the  front  room, 
and  said  her  neighbor  was  out. 

"  What  is  your  neighbor's  name  ?  "  asked  John. 

"  Welland,"  was  the  reply.  "  There  was  an  old  lady 
named  Smart  that  used  to  live  with  her,  but  she's  just 
dead." 

"  I  wanted  to  see  Emily  Welland,"  said  John. 

The  woman  took  a  key,  opened  the  locked  door,  and 
John  walked  in  eagerly,  and  began  to  look  about  him  with 
an  attention  which  appeared  to  surprise  her.  Not  a  trace 
could  he  find  ;  not  a  book,  nor  a  box,  nor  even  an  article 
of  any  kind,  which  he  remembered  as  having  belonged  to 
the  pupil-teacher,  was  to  be  seen.  The  little  room  was 
clean,  but  bare  in  the  extreme  :  a  bed,  two  or  three  chairs, 
a  table  with  work  upon  it,  and  a  box,  were  all  it  contained, 
excepting  the  smallest  of  corner-cupboards,  the  door  of 
which  stood  open.  John  walked  up  to  it,  and  looked  in  at 
the  few  cups  and  plates,  the  morsel  of  butter,  the  small 
piece  of  bread,  and  the  tiny  tea-caddy. 

This  scrutiny  seemed  to  alarm  the  woman.  Perhaps 
she  thought  he  was  a  policeman  in  plain  clothes,  for  she 
colored,  and  remarked  nervously,  that  all  the  people  in  the 
house  were  very  respectable,  and  that  Emily  Welland  had 
never  been  in  trouble. 

"  What  is  Emily  Welland's  occupation  ?  "  asked  John. 

"  She  takes  in  needlework,"  said  the  neighbor.  "  What 
did  you  please  to  want  with  her,  sir  ? " 

John  felt  that  this  was  a  natural  question,  but  he  hardly 


Emily's  Ambition.  397 

knew  how  to  answer  it,  especially  as  a  decent-looking  woman, 
evidently  fresh  from  the  wash-tub,  stood  wiping  her  arms 
just  outside  the  open  door,  and  two  girls  were  peeping  at 
him  from  the  staircase. 

"  I  merely  wished  to  speak  to  her." 

"  Gentleman  says  he  merely  wished  to  speak  to  Emily," 
shouted  the  neighbor  in  the  ear  of  the  washerwoman,  who 
was  deaf. 

The  washerwoman,  in  that  peculiarly  internal  voice  often 
used  by  the  deaf,  replied  that  if  the  gentleman  had  any 
work  for  her,  he  had  better  leave  a  message  ;  and  this  re- 
ply was  repeated  to  him  by  the  other  neighbor,  who  told 
him  at  the  same  time  that  Mrs.  Brian  was  a  very  respect- 
able woman,  and  washed  for  Mrs.  Green  in  the  Square. 

"  I  have  no  doubt  she  is  very  respectable,"  replied  John, 
repeating  their  favorite  word,  and  as  he  spoke  he  was  con- 
scious of  a  gentle  step  coming  softly  up  stairs. 

He  heard  it  even  while  the  neighbor  shouted  this  com- 
plimentary sentence  into  the  deaf  washerwoman's  ear,  and 
he  felt  that  it  was  close  to  the  door. 

"  There  's  a  gentleman  wants  to  speak  to  you,"  said  one 
of  tha  girls. 

John's  eyes  were  on  the  ground  ;  he  felt  so  ashamed  of 
having  tracked  out  one  who  might  have  had  great  reason 
for  wishing  to  remain  unknown,  that  for  an  instant,  though 
he  saw  the  skirts  of  the  shabby  black  gown,  he  could  not 
raise  them  to  see  the  person  who  stood  before  him. 

"  John,"  said  Emily,  in  a  quiet  voice. 

"Yes,  Emily,"  rephed  John,  with  his  old  humility,  "I 
beg  your  pardon  if  I  intrude." 

"  No,  you  don't  intrude,  John,"  said  Emily ;  but  after 
glancing  at  him,  she  looked  round  the  bare  room  and  at 
the  poverty-stricken  neighbors,  and  reddened  as  she  had 
hardly  done  since  she  left  Dorsetshire. 

She  then  took  the  door-handle  in  her  hand,  and  the 


39^  Studies  for  Stories. 

neighbor  somewhat  reluctantly  withdrawing,  she  closed 
the  door,  and  she  and  John  looked  each  other  in  the  face 
for  the  first  time. 

Emily  saw  a  well-dressed  young  man,  strong,  healthful^ 
and  with  an  intelligent  expression  ;  prosperity  appeared  in 
his  independent  bearing,  his  manners  were  improved,  his 
appearance  even  justified  the  epithet  that  those  women  had 
bestowed  on  him  of  "the  gentleman." 

And  John  saw  a  quiet,  gentle-looking  creature,  with  a 
pale  cheek  and  a  thin  hand,  privation  written  on  every  line 
of  the  subdued  and  somewhat  sickly  face,  which  was  still 
pretty,  though  in  all  but  mere  features  greatly  changed. 

"  I  have  had  a  great  many  troubles  since  I  saw  you  last," 
said  Emily,  quietly. 

John  shook  back  his  curly  hair,  and  felt  as  if  the  words 
he  wanted  to  say  were  choking  him,  but  at  length  he  mut- 
tered, that  for  his  part  he  had  had  many  blessings,  and  no 
trouble  at  all  worth  mentioning,  excepting  the  not  having 
-been  able  to  find  out  anything  about  her. 

"  I  had  got  nearly  clear  of  my  difficulties,"  said  Emily, 
"and  was  hoping  to  get  a  teacher's  situation,  when  my 
good  friend  that  I  lived  with  fell  ill,  and  wanted  so  puch 
nursing  and  doctoring,  that  I  had  to  part  with  almost 
all  I  had  on  her  account,  and  give  up  my  thought  of 
teaching." 

Emily  began  this  speech  very  bravely,  but  when  she  got 
so  far,  she  shed  a  few  tears,  and  stopped  to  wipe  them 
away  before  she  went  on. 

"  There  is  nothing  now  to  prevent  my  taking  up  teaching 
again.  I  have  been  to  look  after  a  situation  to-day,  and  I 
hope  I  shall  get  one  in  time." 

John  had  not  a  word  to  say  ;  it  was  evident  that  Emily 
did  not  intend  to  allow  him  to  condole  with  her ;  but  he 
was  determined  not  to  go,  so  he  boldly  sat  down,  and 
Emily  set  her  bread  and  butter  on  the  table,  and  remark- 


Emily's  Ambition.  399 

ing  that  a  neighbor  of  hers  would  lend  her  some  boiling 
water,  took  away  her  teapot,  and  left  him  for  a  minute  or 
two  alone. 

When  she  came  back,  she  cut  up  the  bread ;  they  drank 
some  tea ;  and  Emily  was  drawn  on  gradually  to  tell  of 
her  past  troubles,  and  the  three  years  she  had  lost  out 
of  her  life,  and  John  to  tell  of  his  intended  voyage,  the 
growth  of  his  sisters,  and  his  father's  notion  that  the  voy- 
age would  be  the  making  of  him,  and  be  the  means,  most 
likely,  of  restoring  his  crippled  hand.  At  last,  when  tea 
was  over,  Emily  remarked  that  she  had  some  work  to  do, 
and  irresistible  curiosity  bringing  in  the  deaf  neighbor, 
John  felt  compelled  to  go,  but  he  had  told  her  that  he 
should  come  again  and  see  her,  and  to  bring  her  a  book 
that  had  been  her  grandmother's,  which  he  had  bought  of 
her  uncle,  because  he  had  seen  her  read  in  it  when  he 
was  a  child. 

And  now  Emily  was  left  alone,  and  as  she  sat  at  work 
silent  tears  stole  down  her  face.  The  contrast  between 
herself  and  John  was  painful  to  her  in  the  extreme ;  but 
she  was  not  the  same  Emily  in  mind  and  thought  who 
had  been  so  ambitious  and  self-seeking  as  she  sat  in  her 
grandmother's  pleasant  cottage.  Sorrow  and  privation 
had,  with  the  blessing  of  God,  made  her  see  not  only  her 
mistake,  her  too  great  desire  for  ease  and  for  a  higher 
station,  but  had  opened  her  eyes  to  the  state  of  mind  under 
which  she  had  cherished  ambitious  hopes  and  present  dis- 
content. 

The  race  is  not  always  to  the  swift,  nor  the  battle  to  the 
strong ;  this  she  felt  had  been  proved  in  her  case.  She 
had  received  swiftness  for  the  race  of  life,  but  she  had 
been  vain-glorious,  had  stumbledj  and  now  the  person  in 
whose  way  had  been  placed  so  many  impediments  had 
outstripped  her,  and  shown  her  that  all  her  advantages,  all 
her  favorable  circumstances,  all  her  intelligence,  could  not 


400  Studies  for  Stories. 

weigh  against  the  blessing  of  Providence  upon  the  simple 
performance  of  humble  e very-day  duties. 

Nearly  three  years  of  her  young  life,  as  she  thought, 
had  been  lost  utterly,  —  lost  as  far  as  advancement  and 
usefulness  went ;  for  with  the  help  of  her  kind  friend,  the 
district-visitor,  she  had  scarcely  got  back  her  clothes  from 
the  pawn-shop,  when  Mrs.  Smart  fell  ill,  and  she  felt  that 
she  could  do  no  less  than  return  the  kindness  this  good 
woman  had  shown  to  herself.  It  was  not  a  case  for  a 
hospital,  nor  could  she  leave  her  for  the  day  to  teach,  and 
after  a  few  bitter  struggles  with  herself,  principle  got  the 
upper  hand,  and  she  resolved,  whatever  might  be  the  dis- 
advantage to  herself,  to  remain  with  her  first  friend  in  the 
dreary  waste  of  London,  and  return  her  the  good  will  and 
kindness  she  had  shown  to  her  in  her  trouble.  It  was  no 
easy  task  that  she  had  taken  on  herself  The  illness  was 
soon  declared  incurable,  and,  one  by  one,  almost  every- 
thing the  poor  woman  possessed  went  to  the  old  resort ; 
there  was  no  other  means  of  procuring  her  food  or  medi- 
cine. Emily's  possessions,  so  lately  redeemed,  followed 
once  more,  for  her  needlework  done  at  home  was  not  suf- 
ficient to  maintain  them,  even  with  the  help  of  parish  re- 
lief and  charity. 

By  slow  degrees  the  lamp  of  X\it  burnt  low,  and  now 
Emily  derived  a  blessing  in  her  turn  from  the  poor  woman 
whom  she  had  by  gentle  urgency  and  kindness  persuaded 
to  attend  to  those  things  which  belonged  to  her  peace. 
Now  she  saw  a  patience  under  sufiering  which  made  her 
own  task  in  waiting  and  working  easy  to  her ;  now  she 
received  such  gratitude  and  affection  as  made  her  mind 
turn  gratefully  to  that  Redeemer  who  had  done  so  much 
more  for  her  than  she  could  hope  to  do  for  her  fellow- 
mortal.  At  last  the  sufferer  died,  blessing  and  thanking 
her ;  and  Emily,  when  she  returned  from  the  funeral  to 
her  empty  room,  thanked  God  that  she  had  been  enabled 


Emily  s  Ambition.  40 1 

to  be  of  use,  and  turned  her  thoughts  again  to  her  first 
calling.  She  was  now  free  to  teach,  if  she  could  meet 
with  a  situation  ;  and  being  told  of  the  society  where  John 
had  heard  her  name,  she  applied  for  a  free  voyage  to  Aus- 
tralia, on  condition  of  teaching  the  young  female  emi- 
grants, and  keeping  order  amongst  them  on  board  ship. 
She  was  thought  too  young,  but  hope  was  given  her  of  a 
passage,  not  as  a  teacher,  but  as  taught ;  she  might  go  as 
one  of  the  young  people,  if  she  liked ;  but  she  must  be 
under  the  matron,  and  conform  to  the  regulations  in  all 
respects. 

Emily  blushed  deeply  on  hearing  this,  and  asked  for 
time  to  consider ;  but,  as  she  walked  home,  her  quiet  and 
now  truly  humble  mind  revolved  the  matter.  There  was 
a  situation  as  teacher  to  a  ragged-school  that  she  believed 
she  could  have  at  once,  if  she  applied  for  it ;  but  if  it 
should  fail  her,  she  thought  she  would  go  to  Australia  un- 
der the  disciphne  of  the  matron  spoken  of  And  thus  she 
began  life  under  fairer  auspices,  and  with  every  reason- 
able hope  of  success. 

She  looked  about  her  little  bare  room  and  thought  to 
herself,  with  keen  annoyance,  that  she  could  have  wished 
her  old  friend  had  not  seen  her  in  her  poverty  and  degra- 
dation ;  this  one  painful  circumstance  had  hitherto  been 
spared  her,  for  none  of  her  former  acquaintances  had  found 
her  out,  but  to-day  the  one  whose  good  opinion  she  most 
cared  for,  and,  as  she  thought,  looked  on  her  as  being  now 
far  more  below  him  than  he  had  ever  been,  in  her  opinion, 
beneath  her. 

Perhaps,  if  she  could  have  heard  John's  own  account  of 
the  matter,  she  would  have  been  consoled,  for  when  his 
mother  remarked  to  him  the  next  day  that  he  seemed  to 
be  in  very  good  spirfts,  he  gave  her  as  a  reason  that  he 
had  met  with  Emily  Welland's  address,  and  had  been  to 
see  her.     His  mother,  who  was  packing  a  box,  looked  very 

z 


402  Studies  for  Stories. 

grave  on  hearing  this,  and-  said,  "  Lad,  don't  deceive  thy- 
self with  any  false  hopes." 

John  made  no  reply,  and  his  mother  added,  "  She  was 
always  proud.  And  how  did  she  receive  thee,  my  lad .? 
How  did  she  look .'' " 

"  She  looked  pretty,"  said  John.  "  I  don't  know  that 
she  is  quite  as  blooming  as  she  was,  but  for  all  that  she  is 
very  much  improved,  —  wonderfully  improved." 

"Ah,"  cried  the  mother,  shaking  her  head,  "improved, 
—  that 's  to  be  expected  ;  London  ways  improve  thee,  and 
they  would  her.  But  she  's  out  of  thy  reach,  lad,  with  her 
silks  and  her  flowers.  Thou  must  not  be  so  ambitious. 
Improved,  is  she  ?  Well,  is  she  in  partnership  with  the 
grand  lady  she  worked  with  ?  " 

"No,  mother,  I  am  sure  she  is  not,"  answered  John; 
"  and  when  I  said  she  was  improved,  I  did  not  mean  in 
such  things  as  her  dress  or  her  manners.  I  meant  that 
she  looked  so  gentle,  —  so, — just  what  a  woman  should 
look.  I  am  sure,  if  you  could  see  her  now,  you  would  not 
say  that  she  was  proud." 

The  mother  shook  her  head  and  went  on  with  her  pack- 
ing, which  absorbed  her  attention,  and  she  soon  began  to 
talk  of  the  "Black  Ball"  hne  of  packets  in  which  they 
were  all  to  sail,  of  the  comfortable  new  outfits,  and  of  her 
husband's  joy  in  the  prospect  of  the  sea  voyage. 

John  would  have  Hked  to  tell  her  of  Emily  Welland's 
circumstances ;  but  seeing  her  so  much  interested  in 
other  matters,  he  stood  by  her  silently  reflecting  on  those 
words  of  Holy  Writ :  "  He  putteth  down  one  and  setteth 
up  another." 

"  I  hope,  mother,  we  shall  not  forget  in  our  prosperity 
the  good  God  who  helped  us  in  our  distress,"  he  said  at 
last. 

"  No,  lad,"  rephed  the  mother,  and  presently  said,  "  I  'm 
not  proud,  I  'm  only  thankful." 


Emilys  Ambition.  403 

"  Mother,  have  you  forgotten  Emily  ?  "  asked  John. 

"No,  lad,"  she  answered.  "Art  going  to  see  her 
again  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  John  ;  "  and  I  shall  ask  her  to  marry  me. 
Wish  me  success,  mother." 

Upon  this  the  good  woman  looked  up,  and  rose  from  her 
box. 

"  Wish  thee  success,  lad  !  —  ay,  to  be  sure  ;  but  I  don't 
expect  she  will  marry  thee.  I  thought  as  thou  had  sold 
the  figure,  — thou  had  forgotten  her." 

"  No,  mother ;  but  when  I  came  to  reflect  that  I  had 
been  offered  thirty  pounds  for  that  figure,  and  that  there 
was  no  fear  of  my  forgetting  the  form  of  Emily,  I  felt  that 
it  was  a  sin  to  keep  it  by  me,  for  that  thirty  pounds  would 
enable  three  families  to  come  out  to  us,  for  the  society  I 
told  you  of  only  asks  ten  pounds,  and  will  provide  all  the 
rest.  What  had  I  done,  mother,  to  help  others  in  token 
that  I  was  grateful  to  God  who  has  helped  me  "i  —  Why, 
"nothing,  and  I  had  no  money  to  spare,  when  all  we  re- 
quired was  bought, — indeed,  I  had  nothing  but  that ;  so  I 
just  touched  the  face  a  little  to  take  away  the  likeness,  and 
parted  \vith  it." 

John's  mother  on  hearing  this  wished  him  success 
again,  and  off  he  went,  leaving  her  to  the  occupation  that 
she  thought  so  delightful,  —  that  of  folding,  sorting,  and 
packing  an  abundance  of  good  neat  clothing  for  herself, 
her  husband,  and  her  children.  Sometimes  during  the 
afternoon  she  thought  of  John,  but  oftener  of  the  outfits, 
though  she  did  heartily  wish  him  success,  for  Emily  Wel- 
land  was  the  wife  whom  she  had  always  wished  he  might 
have. 

At  last,  when  it  had  become  quite  dusk,  and  she  had  had 
her  supper,  and  retired  again  to  the  little  bedroom  of  the 
lodging,  and  was  wondering  whether  she  could  pack  any 
longer  without  a  candle,  she  heard  her  son's  step  as  he 


404  Studies  for  Stories. 

came  slowly  up  the  stairs,  and  when  he  entered,  without 
saying  a  word,  she  felt  sure  that  he  had  been  disappointed, 
and  said  to  him  with  motherly  affection,  — 

"  Well,  lad,  there  's  more  than  one  good  lass  in  the 
world,  thank  GodJ' 

"  Yes,  thank  God  for  that,  mother,"  rephed  John ; 
"but  I  '11  thank  Him  first  for  giving  me  the  one  I  asked 
for." 

"  What !  "  exclaimed  the  mother,  really  surprised  and 
pleased,  "  did  she  take  thee,  after  all,  and  not  say,  as  I 
thought  she  would,  that  thou  was  too  ambitious,  lad  ?  " 

"No,  mother,"  said  John;  "but  we  have  been  talking 
about  being  ambitious,  and  Emily  says  she  is  sure  there 
must  be  two  kinds,  and  that  hers  was  the  wrong  one,  so 
she  sent  her  love  to  you,  mother,  and  I  was  to  tell  you 
that  she  knew  you  had  often  thought  her  ambitious,  and 
so  she  has  been :  she  has  been  always  wishing,  she  says, 
to  rise  and  do  a  higher  kind  of  work,  instead  of  doing  her 
own  work  in  the  highest  and  best  way." 

"Ah,"  said  the  mother,  "that  last  is  thy  kind,  lad." 

"  I  wish  it  to  be,"  said  John ;  "  so,  mother,  I  must  try 
to  take  that  ambition  with  me,  as  Emily  will  to  leave  her 
ambition  behind." 


THE   END. 


Cambridge  :  Stereotyped  and  Printed  by  Welch,  Bigelow,  &  Co. 


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